Swordplay
by JeanTre16
Summary: Follow Jacqueline, d'Artagnan and their brothers in arms as they continue to fight evil and stand for justice in this first volume of a two part tale.
1. Chapter 1

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 1**

**Appearances**

**Chapter Description:** Outward appearances are not always what they seem like.

Duval had been sitting at his desk reading the report on the Roget farm incident when that melon had come crashing through his office door. That day, Jacqueline Roget, alias Jacques Leponte, had entered his garrison only to make an immediate rivalry with the son of the legendary d'Artagnan. Roget had gotten off to a rough start all right. But, Duval prided himself with good judgment—his hunches usually paid off. He also prided himself with knowing all that went on in his province—large and small. He believed that quite often it was the seemingly insignificant criminal report that tied into the larger picture of evil doings. Captain Duval believed the peculiar looking nobleman's appearance was no exception. He suspected foul play at the Roget's residence by the Cardinal's men, and he suspected this "Jacques" was somehow connected.

Duval also believed it was no coincidence that he had just been consorting with his own past that very morning with his three unruly, but dear Musketeers—d'Artagnan, Ramon and Siroc. He had lectured them about how he believed the provocation of Cardinal Mazarin had left him with his "leg." Yes, the seasoned soldier believed there was a higher hand at work in the battle of good against evil, and he knew it was not the Cardinal's. He believed in God and he believed God was trying to show him something. All he had to do was pay attention to what he was being shown. And that morning, he had been paying attention as he laid eyes on the unusual looking enlistee.

If "Jacques Leponte" had come at any other time, he may have turned her in. It had not been like Duval to harbor fugitives. He believed in justice. If the woman had killed someone, she deserved to die for her crime. But just as he believed that Mazarin had been behind the attack on his own life, he believed that the Cardinal had been behind the attack on this "wanted" woman's family. He needed evidence, and he considered she may just lead him to it. No, the contemplating Musketeer resolved he would not turn her in, he would watch her closely. He resolved if she could keep her guise up as a soldier, he would have a dedicated foe of the Cardinal on his elite team. He had decided to let her stay.

That had been many months ago, and although much had transpired since then, one thing remained unchanged—Duval was still no closer to unveiling the Cardinal's connection with his alleged crimes. On the other hand, much had changed between the young lady who had posed as Jacques Leponte and his entrusted d'Artagnan.

A smartly dressed young woman entered the lounge of the Musketeer garrison to be greeted by several soldier's eyes rising up to see her. One man, a new recruit, stood to his feet to stop her from entering. "What is a woman doing unescorted in the garrison?" he demanded from her. At this point, all the eyes in the room shifted to watch.

The woman stopped and slowly turned to the recruit with a look of defiance on her face. Ramon, who was sitting in the back of the room, got up as if to say something, but one glint from the lady's eyes encouraged him to reclaim his seat. Fully attuned to the presumptuous male before her, she coolly entreated, "Are you challenging my presence here?"

Not expecting the response he received, he paused to draw a breath before answering. "Mademoiselle, I am just saying that this is no place for a lady to be. This is the Musketeer's garrison!" He landed his statement with confidence.

To this, several "oohs" were heard around the room.

She looked him over briefly, sizing him up. Responding with an air of disbelief she questioned, "What did you call me?" When he had no reply but a look of befuddlement she determined, "You are challenging me. Draw your weapon."

Unsure what to make of what the woman had just suggested, the enlistee retorted in an alarmed utterance, "Mademoiselle, it is not fitting for a man to engage a woman in swordfight! I refuse!"

From the other side of the room a lilted voice interrupted. "Then I will accept the challenge on your behalf. For this is not a mademoiselle." The Musketeer entered the room, casually putting his gloves on, and walked toward the woman. Looking her eye to eye, he beckoned the recruit to sit down by a wave of his hand. Drawing his sword from its sheath with a look of intrigued arrogance, he rallied her, "Shall we, then? Draw your weapon, or whatever it is you're hiding beneath that dress of yours." He followed her dress-line down with his eyes as if to ask her where her weapon was.

Ramon, now thoroughly enjoying the scene before him, shouted. "Now you've done it. You've got her mad now, Senor!"

This statement was enough to spur the woman into motion. She grabbed the hilt of the Musketeer's sword standing behind her, which happened to be Siroc's, and quickly thrust it toward her opponent. Meeting her sword with executed accuracy he deflected her parry. In sing-song movement, the couple flowed about the room as if engaged in some elegant dance. Jaws of the newer recruits dropped on two accounts: One, they had never witnessed such perfection in swordplay; and two, they had never witnessed one between a man and a woman!

With a sudden motion, the young man came down upon the form before him, barely avoiding her retaliating blade. Though the woman side-stepped his blow, her dress caught the end of his sword and tore. "You've torn my dress!" declared the woman.

Her accusation interrupted their bout just long enough for him to lower his eyes to see the gaping hole he placed in her dress. "I'll buy you another one," he smoothly replied with a teasing smile.

"That is no apology," she angrily responded as she renewed the fight.

Unfazed by her onslaught of aggression, he continued in his playful demeanor. "I finish my fights first, and then I see if I need to apologize or not." His speech and conduct insinuated he was enjoying the provocative banter.

As the fight commenced, Ramon made his way over to Siroc and asked, "Who do you put your money on? I'm placing my money on him. She'll never out-step him in that dress."

"I don't know," the reflective scientist replied. "I'd have to place my bet on her. She seems to be pretty upset."

"Si, she does." Ramon's light countenance changed to concern, as if worried about the bet he had just placed.

"Maybe—" reflected Siroc "—I could invent a light-weight, protective material that would withstand the everyday onslaught of swordplay."

"What?" Ramon questioned, not quite following his inventive friend.

"A material that moves with you and doesn't inhibit you," Siroc elaborated.

"Si." Ramon nodded as he caught on to what the inventor was up to. Joining in the spirit of his friend's inventiveness he added, "And it could have other uses, too."

Quite in his element, the blond-haired genius went on, "Perhaps it could even withstand wild animal attacks and carnivorous fish of the sea." Beginning to wander off in thought he continued, "Hm, maybe I could call it…"

Just then, the opponent's swords locked together, leaving them face to face. The woman struggled to loosen her blade from his, but before she realized what had happened, he dropped down and wrapped around the back of her to push her into the table. In doing so, the table cleared of on-looking Musketeers. But before he could rush in to take advantage of her compromised position, she spied a side-of-chicken left on Ramon's platter. She quickly stabbed it and flung it across the room at her opponent. The chicken missed its target and slammed against Captain Duval's office door. Distracted by the loud thump, the young man momentarily turned toward the captain's office. In that brief moment, the woman launched herself off the table and positioned her sword firmly between his legs. Realizing his familiar predicament, he cringed and handed over his sword in defeat.

"Thank you. Now apologize." The gallant young woman gleamed.

But before he could speak, their exchange was interrupted by Captain Duval's irritated voice. "D'Artagnan!"

In unison, both opponents turned to him and startled. "Huh?"

"In my office. The both of you!" Duval motioned to them with an annoyed look on his face.

Turning her attention again toward her bested challenger, and in an arrogance rivaling his own, she glanced at where her blade had been moments before and said, "Sir, I relieve you of your fate to preserve your posterity." In saying this, she retrieved her borrowed blade from his crotch and returned it to its rightful owner.

"Thank you, Madame." Siroc smiled and held his hand out toward an unhappy Ramon for payment on his bet.

Raising an eyebrow, the loser swished his sword and replaced it in its sheath. He turned toward the new recruits who stood there in awe of what had just transpired. "I told you this was no mademoiselle." He grinned. "Allow me the pleasure of introducing my wife—" he paused to gesture in her direction for dramatic effect "—_Madame_ d'Artagnan." Smiling with pride, he yielded to his presented wife as they pressed past the captain to enter his office.

Captain Duval looked around the lounge at the surprised faces on his men and added, "Let that be a lesson to you new recruits. Appearances are not always what they seem to be. Quite often you will find a powerful friend in least likely places." He gestured toward the newly introduced Madame d'Artagnan. Then turning to look his men over seriously, he continued with gravity, "While a foe may be hiding in sheep's clothing." With that he entered his office behind the d'Artagnans and closed the door.

"I don't see why I actually have to learn how to use one of these," complained Louis to his mother with an agitated look on his face. Walking across the richly decorated palace great room, he rubbed a humiliating welt on his rump that the sword master had just placed on him. "I have my Musketeers to protect me." He vied for the right to end his practice session.

"I know, my dear, but it is the 'manly' thing to do," replied the disinterested Queen Anne as she pointed out her choice of fabric to the dressmaker. "I believe I'd like this one for my dinner gown. Thank you, that is all, you may go." Then she turned her attention toward Louis. "My dear son, there are a great many things we'd rather do in life, but that does not give us excuse to neglect the responsibilities that come with the privileges of being royals." Stepping back to gain a better view of her gangling son, she commanded, "Now, let me see how the handsome future king of France can play at swords." She motioned for him to face the master for another bout.

With a painful sigh of resignation, Louis took his stance against the sword master to appease his mother. "En garde," he waved his sword unenthusiastically. With an unspoken look from the queen, the master understood to lose that round with his opponent. After a few pivots and lunges, Louis jabbed for his opponent's side. Intentionally, the master recoiled in the wrong direction, giving Louis a direct hit to his padded heart. "It's a direct hit!" Louis cried. The exuberant teen was overcome with excitement at his win. "Mother, did you see that! I plunged the master right in the heart! Who's the winner this time, Monsieur Swordsman?" he taunted.

"Yes, yes. Now, that's more like it." The queen smiled, satisfied with her son's effort. "That will be all for today." She motioned toward the sword master and the other guards in the room to be dismissed. He and the others bowed and left the room, leaving Louis and Queen Anne alone.

"Mother." Louis pouted as he removed his protective gear, dropping them to the floor for the servant to pick up later. "He let me win. I'll never make a good swordsman will I?" The boy's countenance showed genuine doubt.

His mother sighed and in their privacy confided, "Louis, being an expert swordsman isn't everything. The important thing is that you try." She motioned for him to sit by her by patting the bench next to her. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she looked around and added in a hushed voice, "Besides, you never know when your Musketeers may not be around to save you." Concern swept over her lovely face that Louis had not seen before—a genuine look of fear and distrust of those around them.

At this, Louis's appearance became solemn as he asked what was truly at the heart of his uncertainty, "Do you really think I'll make a good king of France?" Although the young king to be had many tutors, it was his mother's opinion he felt he could wholly trust.

"Yes, I do." The queen nodded unhesitatingly, tapping her son on the knee in affectionate reply. Then thoughtfully she added with a mother's smile, "You are still young, but I have seen a keen sense of nobility in the way you conduct your affairs. Your ways are not always so obvious to the Cardinal and others, but I see deep intelligence in them. That is wise for a king—to remain unfathomed before those he rules." She touched his face lovingly and continued, "If you hold dear to that, you will do well as a king."

"But they have so much power. The politics makes my stomach tie up in knots." Louis whimpered in exaggeration with clenched fists. Sometimes he felt so helpless in the company of those so much older and more learned in the ways of governing.

"Remember, Louis, you are the king, not them," corrected his mother. She felt his turmoil. Her own struggles had not been easily won in the power plays of politics. "Do not allow them to think they have control over you. It is true that the Cardinal possesses a great deal of power, but he is not your superior. Doubt in private; command in public. Besides, if you must, there are always ways to rid yourself of them." With her last comment she trivialized her mood and tinkered with the folds in her dress.

"Oh, I do not wish to rid myself of my questionable subjects." He resolvedly shook his head. "Heaven knows, if I did, there would be heads rolling left and right." He gestured with his hands, making a disgusted face. "I detest such violence. That is not the kind of king I hope to be remembered as."

"No, I would not like my son to be remembered as such a tyrant," agreed the queen, once again giving her son her undivided attention.

Considering the advice of his mother he reflected, "But, I must keep a close eye out on these men." Louis squinted in a distant thoughtful stare. "I shall keep my friends close, and my enemies even closer," he conceded to no one in particular. Then, with his new-found kingly resolve, he faced the regent beside him. "Thank you, Mother."

**Author's Note:** This is my first post to this site. Some of you may have read my works elsewhere, but if you haven't, please let me know your're reading and what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 2**

**Planning Stages**

**Chapter Description:** Plans are staged at the Musketeer garrison and palace that will change destinies. And a special guest appearance is made by a famous playwright.

"Will the two of you ever stop your exhibitions?" quipped Duval to d'Artagnan and Jacqueline after he closed the door securely behind them. They had just entered his office from the lounge where the couple had given a dashing display of swordsmanship to the dining Musketeers.

"But Captain…" began d'Artagnan, trying to defend himself. Like so many times before, the young Musketeer stood before his superior's desk to receive a verbal lashing.

"But nothing," interrupted the senior Musketeer. He strode over to his well-worn position behind his desk and continued in his angry tone, "I know we aren't explicitly trying to hide Jacqueline's presence, but we don't want to announce her to the Cardinal on her first day back in Paris either!" His eyes were wide, staring the two down to make sure he drove his point home.

The d'Artagnans stood there side-by-side and shared a brief look between each other, as if in silent conversation. They had gotten used to those silent looks while trying to hide the female soldier's identity. It had grown into an art between them. They just seemed to know what the other was thinking.

Noticing the shared bond between them, Duval softened. "What am I to do with the two of you? Look at you…married," he said, gesturing outstretched palms up and a look of marvel on his face. "Well, before you force me to berate you any further, please let me congratulate the two of you." With that, the captain extended his hand to briskly shake the newlywed's, clasping the young man's shoulder with the other.

"Thank you, Captain," said d'Artagnan, beaming.

As Duval made his way over to Jacqueline, he did not know whether to shake her hand, as he had her husband's, or give her a hug. Although he had known her identity from the start, he had been used to dealing with her as her counter personality—Jacques. With a minimal pause, he decided to give her a lady's courtesy and hug her warmly. God knew she had become dear to him. She had become more like the daughter he had never had.

"Thank you, Captain," Jacqueline responded, obviously touched by his show of affection. Then remembering the displeasure she caused him for her slip of judgment, she added, "Sorry about what happened out there. When one of those new recruits tried to stop me from coming into the garrison, I forgot myself."

"It was my fault," covered her protective spouse. He had already staved off plenty of trouble for this woman he loved—he had even endured imprisonment in her stead. "I never could resist a challenge from Jacqueline."

"Hmm, yes, I can see that." It made Duval smile, thinking that this young, arrogant man had also known about Roget for almost as long as he had. And yet, the younger man had somehow managed to keep himself in check before the others. A different side of d'Artagnan came out when he was around women. Females seemed to magnetize to him. It wasn't always a commendable response the advantageous son of the legend showed toward them, but Jacqueline had resisted his advances. She had demanded only the highest quality of behavior from him. No wonder she had been able to capture his heart. A man can toy around with beauty, but it took a woman of integrity to compliment a man's noble character.

Decidedly Duval reminded himself that not all men were of noble character. His Musketeer was, but Mazarin was not. He felt the need to caution the couple with his concern. Somberly he proceeded, "D'Artagnan and Jacqueline, you must be careful. I've good reason to suspect there is a man of the Cardinal's within these compounds. Siroc is working on a way to uncover this 'mole,' but we'll discuss that in more detail later."

Once again, the older man noticed an exchange of glances between d'Artagnan and Jacqueline. He anticipated that the couple's first stop after his office would be the inventor's room where they would raze poor Siroc until he divulged all he knew about Mazarin's insider. Envisioning this made Duval resign the thought of attempting to interfere.

"Now," Duval lightened the mood, "I insist that you fill me in on how everything went in Marseille."

"Marseille…" began d'Artagnan. "Ah, yes, Marseille." The reminiscing young groom's countenance lit up at the mention of their recent excursion to the busy port city, and the reason they had made it. "As a Musketeer, I must admit, it was an adventure. As a man about to wed…"

"He was a nervous wreck!" interjected Jacqueline, saving him from offering the incomplete truth. She knew he was embarrassed and that he had spent most of their time in Marseille in a fog. She doubted anyone had seen that side of this overconfident man before. "Once he realized that I had said 'yes' to his offer of marriage, I think he was speechless for almost the time it had taken him to ask me in the first place."

"D'Artagnan!" Duval exclaimed, laughing. There was a look of amazement on his seasoned features. "Imagine, our poor d'Artagnan, speechless!" He remembered how she had made the son of the legend swallow his pride on that first fateful day they met. How delightful, the surprised man thought, that someone could hold such power over him.

"Go ahead and laugh," defended the young cad, looking a little unnerved by being put on the spot. "You would be speechless too if such a beautiful woman had just accepted your offer of marriage." He turned toward his wife as if to challenge her to find fault with his complement.

She returned it with a smile, but could not resist his vulnerability. "Oh, but as you can see, he's fully recovered his ability to sweet talk," Jacqueline teased. "Hmm, and after I spent some time in the presence of his father, I can see, 'like father, like son.' The two of you make quite a pair." Jacqueline snickered as she recalled their encounter with the legendary man. "After d'Artagnan's father got over the shock of his son desiring to marry a wanted woman who was posing as a Musketeer, he was really quite agreeable."

"I can imagine his reaction." Duval nodded with understanding. "But, I must confess, your appearance was preceded by a letter of mine, in which I gave him just enough background to spare your life, d'Artagnan. I made mention that you had some difficult news for him that you wanted to deliver in person. I made him promise to hear you out before he reacted"

D'Artagnan livened with this new bit of information. "That explains his reaction to my showing up at his door with Jacqueline," he reflected. It was all becoming clear to him now. "He thought I had gotten her pregnant and was dropping her off in his care." He smiled caddishly at the thought. Perhaps he had a reputation to lend credit to such a thought, but in the case of Jacqueline, he had been completely chivalrous. "He was relieved at first to hear that wasn't the case. But then I had to drop the even more disturbing truth on him. I'm not sure which he would have preferred."

"I'm quite sure he preferred to hear the truth of his son's noble intentions toward an equally noble woman," the seasoned man offered graciously. "Otherwise, I'm sure he would never have done so much on either of your behalves as he did."

"Yes, I am grateful for all he has done." The appreciative woman had genuinely been moved by how her proposed husband's father had gone completely out of his way for them after hearing out their entire story. While the elder d'Artagnan insisted his son show Jacqueline the city of Marseille, he had taken care of all the arrangements. There was nothing he did not do. From the wedding to the return plans to Paris, he insisted in making all the preparations and covering all the expenses. Madame d'Artagnan had to admit, "I'm afraid I'm even more in awe of him than before."

"Yes, yes," interrupted her husband, wanting to change the subject. "We've all heard how wonderful my father is." He still couldn't stand it that Jacqueline had been so infatuated by his own father, even if it was based upon his legendary status.

"Charles did have a way with words—" Duval chuckled to himself "—and people." Fond memories of his friend came to the reminiscing soldier's thoughts. There was no one of good character that did not love Charles d'Artagnan. "His ways with words and people have made him allies in the highest of places. Let us pray that his alliances are willing to grant him a royal ear."

Duval knew that it had been these alliances that drew d'Artagnan's father to Marseille after his last visit to Paris. Officially, he had gone back into retirement; unofficially, he had been the king's eyes and ears, observing the influx of activity from the eastern world and Spanish front. No, the former comrade knew his friend would never truly retire as long as he could draw his sword. He knew personally that a dedicated Musketeer never retired. He would remain loyally in the service of his Majesty for the rest of his life. But now, his alliances would hopefully give him leverage on Jacqueline's behalf. "It is good to hear that your father is still himself, d'Artagnan," the captain concluded.

Then he breached the heart of what they had come into his office to discuss. "I received his correspondence and am fully aware and in complete support of his plans." Duval didn't want to overshadow the new couple's happiness, but he knew they understood the full implications of their decision to marry. Jacqueline was still wanted for murder. She would be a hunted woman the rest of her life if she did not stop running and take a stand.

A silent shadow seemed to enter the room that was felt by the three of them. But Duval went on, "I know it is difficult to draw him from his duties in Marseille, but then, he has a higher duty right now to his family." He looked at Jacqueline sitting there as much like a picture of beauty he had ever seen. What the Cardinal had allowed to be taken from her had been cruel. He had endorsed more to be taken from her than just those whom she had held dear. He had permitted his guards to take her father and brother. For a woman to lose the men that would care for her, left her exposed to the world and unprotected. Jacqueline was a tough, resourceful woman, but that was not enough in the world they lived in. The captain knew it was God that had brought her to the one place she could again receive the protection she deserved. He had smiled on her by giving her a new family of Musketeers who would gladly give their lives on her behalf. If he had led her thus far, the faithful man hoped that God would smile on their plans to completely acquit her.

The commanding Musketeer rose from his desk. "For now, let's get the two of you settled. We know Jacqueline can't stay in her…I mean, _Jacques'_ room," Duval began. He gave them a look of concern. He wondered how they were all going to keep things straight. "Until Jacques allegedly returns with your father, Jacqueline must stay outside the garrison," the resolute man stated.

"But Captain," protested d'Artagnan sternly, "Jacqueline is much safer in the barracks. I won't have her alone and so vulnerable to Mazarin." He was not about to leave his wife unprotected.

"Believe me. I share your concern d'Artagnan. But I absolutely cannot allow a woman, no matter how dear, to openly house in the barracks. I have a garrison to run and a reputation to uphold. That's final!" There was a round of unhappy looks in the room, and then the captain offered in consolation, "I will however, permit you, Ramon and Siroc to offer full-time guard privilege for Jacqueline." He concluded his address with a fabricated, reasoning, "It is to be expected, after all, that the wife of such a popular Musketeer may have concern of being harassed by some of the city's more…feminine citizens."

Still not quite pleased with the compromise, but unsure of what to do about it at the time, the newly-wed man nodded in consent. That would leave four of them to fend off any covert attempts on Jacqueline's life from Mazarin. That was no different an odd than they had faced before.

"Of course—" Duval expounded "—after Jacques returns, _Jacqueline_, as Jacques, may take up her quarters in the barracks…discretely, mind you." He shook his head, knowing that this couple had been dealing with this charade for some time by now. Much would rely on their ability to coordinate the appearances of Jacqueline and Jacques. Yet, he wondered by what miracle they were going to pull it off without raising suspicion.

Not raising suspicion would be one thing, but the real miracle was yet to come—at Louis's coronation and birthday celebration. If all went well, Jacques would announce his decision to leave with d'Artagnan's father to the east, while Jacqueline would remain in France enjoying her new-found freedom—exit Jacques, enter Jacqueline. If all did not go well, Jacqueline would be the one who needed to leave Paris for good. Their plans were risky, but Duval had faith they could work. It was a rare chance he had been presented with at righting an injustice Mazarin had been directly responsible for.

Perhaps he could not publicly say it, but woman or not, Jacqueline was a Musketeer. Duval had accepted that. She had earned her right through her service as Jacques Leponte, and he would stand by that young soldier as one of his own. Perhaps the younger Musketeers had a new motto, but Martin Duval and Charles d'Artagnan were still bound by their pledge of 'One for all and all for one.' The long-time friends would not forget that as they fought for the justice of one very dear Musketeer.

Upon exiting his office, the captain had one last request of them, "Oh, and try not to seriously hurt one another in any of those sword drills of yours!"

Queen Anne and Cardinal Mazarin sat opening and sorting through a pile of birthday invitation responses. "Another yes," tallied the queen. "How many does that make altogether?"

As the man in red opened the last letter in a stack of responses, he replied, "That makes exactly fifty-six regrets and three hundred twenty-eight confirmations. Henry, your second cousin on your mother's side, apparently won't be attending," the Cardinal summed up as he tossed the last letter into the 'regret' pile. "Tragically he was run over by a run away carriage when the Carnival Troupe came to town."

"Oh, poor Henry, I hope he'll be all right," stated the queen as she agitatedly fanned herself. "Are we finished here then?" Anne rose from her seat in anticipation of the Cardinal's affirmation.

"We are finished," resigned the prime minister. He stood and followed her while wrapping up loose ends. "And now, I suggest I begin making arrangements for the royal dignitaries by firming up our guard service."

"Yes, of course. I'll let you see to that, Mazarin," permitted the queen. She admitted she was in charge of the planning, but that did not mean she had to deal with all the petty intricacies. Then she recalled her son's request, and added, "Of course Louis will want his Musketeers there."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Mazarin winced unnoticed. It was his desire that those countermanding lot of soldiers remain out of the coronation and festivities plans. But, now with the queen's mention, he would have to find some petty role for them to play. No, perhaps he would give them the largest risk. If anything happened to the boy, it would fall blame to the Musketeers, thus, leading to their disbanding. Yes, considered the red-capped man, maybe he could work them into his arrangements.

"All these preparations," overwhelmed the queen to Mazarin. She checked her hair in a nearby mirror and commented, "I still have to see Louis' clothing designer, the party coordinator, and approve the upholsterer's work. I don't see how I'll get it all done." Her son's taking the throne was certainly one of the foremost events of her life and she found herself in extreme anxiety over it.

"Your Majesty," stoically replied Mazarin, "anything I can do to help." The pacifying man knew his minor favor would satiate this woman's feeling of importance.

Fanning herself with agitated vigor, she delegated, "Since you asked, would you see to the upholsterer? See that the print has a nice lay on the cushions," instructed Anne as she walked off to meet the clothing designer.

Mazarin nodded coolly and walked with disdain to where a man was working on a poorly upholstered chair. Taking a brief assessment, he frowned and called to the master upholster, "Are you the man responsible for this work?"

"Monsieur Poquelin, Master upholster at your service," the upholsterer introduced himself with jubilance in his voice. It was his job to serve the upper class citizens of Paris, but he considered it his happy privilege to show his craftsmanship for royalty. He thought the Cardinal, no doubt, would be paying him compliments.

Instead, His Eminence brazenly pointed out the flaws. "Her Majesty pays you for your quality work, not this substandard show of poor craftsmanship," demeaned Mazarin bluntly.

Seeing that the Cardinal was correct, he offered, "I apologize for my son, Jean's, poor work." The master explained, "I have been trying to mold him in the family business. But I can see you are right, his work is poor. Jean spends too much time daydreaming about writing famous plays." He looked at his son with a scolding demeanor.

Mazarin haughtily looked down on the son's shoddy work and said, "I assure you, the church would never endorse his plays." He felt no pity for the man. In his book, no one received a second chance.

Just then, Louis entered the room with his "party" coordinator and overheard the mention of "plays." His face lit up. "Plays! Splendid idea! I was just discussing entertainment with my man here," glowed Louis. "I like plays. I should like to have a play at my celebration." He clapped his hands together like a giddy school child.

Mazarin, clasping his hands together in a prayer-like manner for a pious effect, calmly put Louis' idea down, "I strongly suggest that a play is not in the best interest of representing the new king of France to his people and foreign dignitaries." In truth, the man had other plans for entertainment and did not want to be troubled with changes.

"Your ideas of fun, Mazarin, are so boring," protested Louis with a pout. "Am I to have no excitement at my party? I want a play, and one that is not drab, like your colorless demonstrations for indulgences." This man drudgery made him cross.

"Your Majesty, those plays fund the church," pointedly explained Mazarin.

"Yes, yes—" dismissed Louis with an annoyed look on his face "—But I want something witty." It was his party and he wanted to celebrate it in a way that would be fun for him, not someone else's idea of fun.

"We'll see what we can do," Mazarin replied dryly, considering what small concession he could make for the child. Then, nodding his head in reluctant approval toward the coordinator, he added, "Make a note. The king would like a play. That will be all for now."

"Louis. Louis," interrupted the call from the queen in the next room. "Is that you, dear?"

"Yes, Mother," unenthusiastically answered Louis. He wondered what else the adults had planned for him.

"Come dear. Your clothing must be selected," Anne informed.

Louis walked into the adjoining room where his mother stood beside two regally adorned mannequins. He frowned and looked around the room. "Is that all? Are there only two options for the king?" he queried. "In all Paris, there are only two designs fit to clothe the king?" Louis wrinkled his nose and with a raised finger resolved, "After I am crowned king, I will issue an edict that Paris should become the civilized world's number one leader of fashion." Then he added, "And the designs will reflect the newer trends of the younger generation." Happy with himself, in making a kingly proclamation, he gripped the front of his jacket with his fists and rocked back and forth on tip-toes in pride.

"Louis," Anne verbally prodded, "Will you stop being king for one moment and obey your mother. Try one of these on." She was a busy woman and had much to do without the play antics of her son to hinder her work.

"Well, all right," Louis submitted reluctantly and proceeded to try on his clothing.

A messenger quietly approached the queen. He bowed and offered her a letter on a silver tray. "Thank you," she responded and took the letter with interest. Turning away for some privacy, she opened the letter and silently began to read. "Charles—" she startled under her breath "—I wonder what Charles could want?"

**Author's Note:** A special thanks to Hedani for all her input on the re-write for this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 3**

**Brothers-in-Arms**

**Chapter Description:** Siroc and Ramon have a surprise for the newlyweds.

Duval had been right about the d'Artagnans' prompt visit to see Siroc after leaving his office. But badgering their comrade for his knowledge on Mazarin's mole was not their primary reason for their rush. It was true that they were curious about the intuitive man's plans to uncover the one masquerading as a new Musketeer recruit. But, foremost, they missed their friends. The newlyweds had not seen either Siroc or Ramon since they had left for Marseille. It was in their anxiousness to be with their "brothers-in-arms" again that they made their haste.

But, brothers-in-arms were not what met the couple when they entered the inventor's lab. A thick musky odor sent them reeling back out the door they had just walked through. Across the room they saw the two men they had come to drop in on look up from the work table. "Ramon!" D'Artagnan stepped forward to re-enter from the hallway, but found himself shrinking back from the smell. "Is that your cheese again? I'm surprised Siroc allowed you to bring it into his lab!"

The two newcomers reflexively put their hands to their noses to ward off the overpowering, pungent smell. At the same time, they both noticed the small cream-colored, startled looking animal, gleaming over at them from a nearby shelf.

The Spaniard took on a wounded look at the accusation and turned to the blond-haired man standing beside him. "Compadre!" he reproved with a frown. "You must do something about that animal's odor." It was his comrade's brilliant idea to acquire the animal, and he had no desire of taking the blame for its peculiarities. He not only was embarrassed, he also had his doubts that this was one of the inventor's better ideas.

"Well, it wouldn't keep releasing its musk if you people wouldn't keep frightening it by entering unannounced," the scientist defended. He put down whatever he was tinkering with on his table and turned his attention to his company. For a brief moment, he assessed them, as if expecting to see something different in their appearance.

Unaware of their friend's observation, the man and wife moved inside and shut the door. With d'Artagnan waving at the air before him and Jacqueline scrunching her nose, the pair kept a healthy distance from the jittery critter. It looked just as surprised and wary of their appearance as they were by his.

"What is it?" Jacqueline asked. She pondered, with a furrowed brow, over what it was that she was looking at. Farm animals, she was familiar with, but domesticated pets were not her forte. And she had never seen one like this before.

Siroc momentarily interrupted his train of thought to delve into his scientific memory for an answer to her question. "That, my dear lady, is a Mustela Putorius Furo."

"A what?" she rebounded. Sometimes her friend could really lose her with all his pricy words. The perplexed woman gave the scholar a strained look in hopes for an explanation in plain French.

The proud owner grinned and offered further explanation for her benefit, "It's a ferret, as it's more commonly called." Walking over to the furry little creature, he clicked his tongue and gently coaxed it up his shirt sleeve onto his shoulder.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline exchanged concerned glances. Their friend wore a familiar mischievous smile. They recognized it as the devious grin he usually donned before revealing his latest clever idea. In shared caution they returned their stare to their brewing resident genius and braced themselves.

Ramon cringed at what he knew the couple was about to hear and attempted to lighten the blow. "Siroc says they're originally from Spain." He gave a weak, forced smile, and then decided to abandon the effort all together. After all, the Spaniard was not sure he wanted to identify with such an offensive smelling…thing.

"Why am I not surprised?" d'Artagnan sarcastically replied as he exaggeratedly tried to clear the air around him. "Whew! Is that your secret weapon? Are you planning on scaring out the mole with this little stink bomb of yours?" He offered his friend an amused frown.

Unfazed by their protests, the genius went on, "A smelly debut this little man may have, but he has other talents. I assure you." He scratched the playful little ferret on the neck, while it stopped just long enough to bob its head in his owner's face. Since Jacqueline and d'Artagnan had entered the room, the weasel-sized animal had not kept still for a moment. It occasionally paused to raise its curious nose and smell the newly arrived pair, and then went about its business of pacing his landlord's shoulders. Absorbed with his playmate, Siroc admitted, "I didn't have the heart to remove his scent glands. You never know, he may need them one day. Besides, he only uses them when he's startled. So if you don't mind, please knock before you enter." He knew this animal could be quite useful, if its scent glands could be kept in check.

"Well—" Ramon recovered his wits and redirected the attention back to their returning comrades "—Welcome home, Senor and Senorita!" He quickly closed the gap between him and his recently wed friends and gave them a Spaniard's passionate greeting.

He was followed closely by Siroc, who had just set the ferret down on the lab table before approaching his married comrades. He clasped d'Artagnan's hand and hugged him solidly. "Congratulations," he offered to the smiling Musketeer, who received the congratulations with gratitude.

But, like Duval, the scientist had been a little unsure of how to greet his female friend. He had known of her identity for a few months now, but had only seen her dressed as a woman on the day she and d'Artagnan had left for Marseille. And on that note, he had not spent any real time in her presence. The young genius seemed to have more trouble than Duval in overcoming his apprehension to her feminine appearance. It was difficult to see his friend and fellow musketeer in the "lady Jacqueline." It showed, too. He put his hand out to shake her hand, awkwardly recoiled, and shyly gave her a quick hug.

Jacqueline's face turned to his in sympathy. "Siroc, just because I'm a woman, and married to d'Artagnan, doesn't mean I'm no longer your friend. That will never change; I promise you." She had never considered her change in presentation would affect her relationship with this man she had come to think of as a brother.

With these words, the disquieted man seemed to find his grounding with Jacques' transformation to Jacqueline. "Thanks, I'm glad to hear that, because I'd really miss our friendship." Faintly smiling, he added, "I always knew there was some reason I didn't find you as annoying as the other two." He genuinely meant that.

"Si, Senorita, I must admit, you gave your Siroc and me quite a shock when we discovered you were not a Jacques, but indeed a Jacqueline." Like the inventor, Ramon had only known a few short months of his female comrade's true identity, but had embraced the romance of her predicament like a true poet. He had even composed a short rhapsody for her upon his discovery—_Fémina Musketeer_. "But," redirected the tall Spaniard, "now that old acquaintances have been renewed, let us discuss this little creature's talents for uncovering Mazarin's man!" He wanted to hear the plan again, in the company of the others, to see if they would be convinced it had any merit.

A little more relaxed in its presence, d'Artagnan approached the ferret with renewed interest. "How will this…thing, that smells so badly, help us uncover a spy?" He looked back at his friend with a raised, quizzical brow.

Like I said," reminded the man who master-minded the idea, "I've been working with our little agent here. I've been teaching him to do a little stealth work around the barracks at night. With the help of his heightened sense of smell and hearing, he should help us locate where Mazarin's mole has been holed up. There are just a few more things I need to work out." He decided the newcomers did not need to hear about the small problems he had run into.

"I've got to hand it to you, Siroc—" d'Artagnan mused "—You've made a lot of progress with the captain. I didn't see Captain Duval as the sort of man to allow a smelly rodent in his garrison." The young rogue had to admit that his comrade could come up with some pretty off-beat ideas. But he usually did not get the blessings of the man in charge of the garrison preceding those. This was a surprise for him. Maybe more had changed since he had been away than routine bed-sheets and menus.

"As I've told the captain, it isn't a rodent," assured the inventor. "Scientifically, it's more like a cat or a dog. In fact, ferrets are known for catching rodents, which is exactly what we're planning for tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?" inquired d'Artagnan with a look of intrigue. Action, so soon, he thought to himself. He had been hoping for at least a few quiet days before getting back into the swing of things.

Stepping forward, as if on stage, the man with the poetic mind laid out the plot, "Si, tomorrow after the garrison has settled down to sleep, our little fellow will be loosed on a mission to smell out our rat." His narration was complete with a waving gesture presenting their leading star—the ferret. At that he looked at the animal and made a face as though he smelled something foul. Regaining his composure he shook his head, giving the impression their leading actor was the only part of their plot he was not wholly enthusiastic about.

"Speaking of sleep," said the yawning man with thoughts of his wife on his mind, rather than their rat-catcher. Then frowning with momentary distraction by the staring nearby ferret, he cautiously reached out his hand to pet it. Focused with intense curiosity on the nervous critter, he extended his hand and withdrew it as if expecting to be bitten. Finally abandoning his attempt, he looked to Jacqueline with a raised brow. "I'm bushed," he said, as if giving her a cue.

Jacqueline caught the subtle hint from her husband and added, "Now that you mention it, we have been on the road all day and could use some time to rest and freshen up before dinner." They had been traveling for several days now, making time alone a coveted item since their wedding night. She was anxious to be alone with him as well. "We'll catch up with you boys later." She excused d'Artagnan and herself.

As the couple made their way over to the door, Ramon and Siroc shared a mischievous look between themselves. They had been planning a special welcoming for their endeared friends. "See you later," they both responded, pretending to be unmoved by their dismissal. As soon as the couple left the room, their comrades quietly tip-toed over to the door and peeked down the hallway. They had no intention of missing the reaction to their friends' surprise. Immediately after the receding couple had cleared the corner, the conspiring duo snuck out of the inventor's lab toward d'Artagnan's quarters.

Suddenly, they heard gasps and groans sounding down the hallway. Upon opening d'Artagnan's door, the couple had been dumped on by various booby traps, set with everything from honey, flour and eggs to water. In as short of an amount of time it took for the various ingredients to shower from their slings, the spread had been thorough and effective. The newlyweds were covered from head to foot. Of course, the culprits had just made it around the corner in time to witness the glorious event unfold.

"Ramon!" Jacqueline raised her voice, clearly perturbed. "You'll pay for this!"

Two guilty men stood there to behold a pair of very unrecognizable forms. The tall Spaniard mischievously grimaced toward the one wearing the dress. "Ramon? Why do I always take all the blame for these things? It was Siroc's brilliance that triggered the time release of each element so as to have the optimal effect!"

Hearing the accused man's response triggered hysterical laughter from all four Musketeers. "Here's to brothers-in-arms!" replied d'Artagnan, and he grabbed both Ramon and Siroc with his wet, flour-caked body, neatly coating them with their own implements of disaster. Jacqueline joined in and began removing lumps of egg from her dress and smeared it on both their friends.

"It's so good to have them back," stifled the chief tactician. "I missed these endearing moments." No one could say this man was all work and no play—just so long as the play involved a little ingenuity.

"Yes, I'm happy to have you two back as well," Ramon confessed, winding down to a chuckle. His side hurt from all the laughter. In a lightened mood he joked, "I was beginning to feel like Siroc and I were married with all the time we spent alone."

Jacqueline recalled her strange dream where a whole scenario of consequences due to her actions with the invincible sword played out. In it, Siroc had disguised himself as Ramon's wife to break him out of jail. The unexpected irony of her friend's statement threw her into another fit of laughter.

"What's so funny?" the puzzled Spaniard asked.

"Oh, nothing," replied Jacqueline, trying to calm herself down. "I'm just glad to be back, too." And she was.

As he watched his wife enjoy herself, d'Artagnan was reminded of how much he loved her. She looked beautiful, even covered in flour and egg. He suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist and gave her a passionate kiss. When the kiss lingered a little too long for Siroc and Ramon's comfort, the two went off to leave the newlyweds alone.

The poet said to them as they left, "You two are hopeless." Then turning to his only remaining audience, he suggested, "Perhaps I will compose a rhapsody for them…"

"No, you won't!" interrupted his blond-haired comrade, holding his hand up to stop the poet before he even started. "Not now." And he headed off toward his lab to work out some rough spots on his latest endeavor.

Looking back at the oblivious lovers, Ramon shook his head, smiled and closed d'Artagnan's door. "Whew, those two apparently take this being brothers-in-arms stuff quite seriously."


	4. Chapter 4

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 4**

**Memories and Dreams**

**Chapter Description:** Unable to sleep, Captain Duval finds himself reminiscing how two of his Musketeers decide to risk everything.

Almost all but Duval had settled down for the night at the busy garrison. Night patrols were out, while day patrols bedded down. D'Artagnan, Ramon and Siroc had taken security rotations at Jacqueline's off-site accommodations. All seemed like orchestrated routine. But the restless man could not sleep.

His mind was alive with memories and anticipation of the future. It all swirled before him like some elaborate game of swordplay—parrying, lunging and going for the kill, and yet it all never seemed to end. Every time a hit against the Cardinal was made, the game would reset and begin all over again. It was all sport. Rules had been set and played by, foul play was penalized, wounds were bandaged; yet, there were no true winners and losers. Now, two Musketeers under his care had decided to remove all safety protocols to play for the final win. They had decided to risk all in order to gain everything. Sport with Mazarin was about to be turned into battle, which someone would win and the other lose. All the tired captain could do was close his eyes and relinquish himself to his sleepless flights.

After Jacques had been injured in her fight with yet another of the Cardinal's captains, a worried Duval had walked by Jacques' quarters often during her recovery. D'Artagnan had been there almost every free moment. The observant captain noticed how the young man's motions showed more than a fellow soldier's concern—as one brother-in-arms to another. Duval had seen something more.

The handsome young Musketeer expressed tenderness for his sleeping friend. On occasion, the older man witnessed this dutiful comrade tenderly stroking strands of hair from Jacqueline's face. The captain believed his charge knew who she was and had known for some time. Or at least the cad knew that she was a woman. Duval wanted to know just how much he knew about her, and there was only one way to find out. It was time to address one of them, and Jacques was too weak. So it had to begin with d'Artagnan.

"D'Artagnan," a concerned voice broke the silence. He had been standing by Jacques' door for some time now, unnoticed.

Sitting at her bedside, the preoccupied man, acting as nursemaid, startled. "Sir?" he whispered, trying not to disturb Jacques' restful sleep. His care-worn gaze shifted from where she lay to the intruder.

"I'd like a moment with you in my office," replied his superior.

The two walked down the hallway to Duval's office, where the captain motioned for the soldier to take a seat. Fixing his eyes on the young man's reaction, the seasoned leader went around the other side of the desk and took a scroll from his drawer to place it on his desk. Slowly, he unrolled it so that it faced d'Artagnan, revealing the wanted poster with Jacqueline Roget's picture on it. He could see the alarm building in the young Musketeer before him.

Duval broke the deafening silence. "I have reason to believe she is here within the garrison."

He did not have to wait long for a reaction. In fact, the elite soldier reacted so quickly that the next thing Duval saw was the Musketeer standing before him with his sword drawn from his sheath. The man's face was distraught and his muscles tense. "You'll have to get past me first, sir," he defended.

Acutely alarmed by the actions of his unthinking soldier, the leader's eyes grew wide as blood rushed through his veins. "Take it easy d'Artagnan." The captain attempted to regain control of the situation and held his hand out in caution. "No one is going to hurt her or turn her in," he reassured, soothingly.

The defender seemed surprised to hear the captain's assuring words. He had obviously expected the opposite. Gradually, he relaxed his stance and slowly slid his sword back into its place. "I'm sorry, Captain, it's just that I've been so protective of her lately. If anything should happen to her with her being so weak…" He could not finish the words, because he did not know what he would actually do. But he knew it would be rash. In fact, he had just proved that with the ease at which he had pulled his own sword against his captain.

"I thought you knew," resigned Duval with a deep sigh. With a heavy heart, he moved on to his next question. "But, what I want to know is how much you know?"

Unsure of what to answer and remembering his pledge to Jacqueline, d'Artagnan cautiously replied, "Maybe you should ask Jacqueline." He had guarded her secret for so long he remained wary, even of his superior. The closed-minded man stood with a smug look on his face.

Reading the defensive young man's unwillingness to offer information, the captain proceeded, "I intend to speak with her, once she's regained some strength. God knows, d'Artagnan, I never wanted any harm to come to her," Duval confessed, sounding his frustration over recent events. Looking squarely at her protective guardian and noticing he had not completely lost his tenseness, he added in sincerity, "You've got to believe that." He sighed loudly and relaxed his own composure toward the son of his dear friend. They, after all, were not enemies. They were on the same side of the battle field in this predicament.

The responsible feeling young man breathed deeply, following his superior's lead, and nodded. "All right, I believe you." Still in a stunned frame of mind over their conversation, he crossed his arms as if still aloof as to where it would lead.

With as much tact as possible, the experienced man asked what he had really been pondering, "What I'd like to know from you, d'Artagnan, is what your intentions are."

"My intentions, Sir?" The captain's question had taken an unexpected turn. In fact this whole conversation seemed surreal to him. His face looked lost and puzzled as he fought hard to regain his bearings.

"Yes, your intentions, d'Artagnan," asked the man behind the desk in a soft-spoken voice. "I know you with women, but I also am no fool when it comes to love."

There, he had said it—love. Captain Duval had voiced what had been haunting d'Artagnan for some time now—he was in love with Jacqueline. But what were his intentions? How could he possibly answer his captain? His intentions were never so sure and yet unsure at the same time. He was sure he would defend this brave woman with his life; yet, he was completely unsure of just what kind of relationship they did have.

The worldly-wise man could see the novice was at a loss for words. "Your actions show more than just protectiveness over Jacqueline. Though I am unmarried," Duval offered, "I recognize a devoted man's heart toward the one he cares for. That, I assure you, is something I do know about." He knew the son of the legend was aware of his past affairs of the heart. There was no need to elaborate on that now.

D'Artagnan was numb. "Captain, to be honest, I'm not even sure what to think. Can I ask you why God brought her into my life—to torture me? Here she is, closer than any other woman has ever been to me before, and she may as well be a world away, since I cannot have her." He spoke with a lump in his throat as a man gripped in emotional pain.

With their conversation wrapping up, the captain walked over to the heavy-hearted young man and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Well, that is quite often how it goes, son," responded the compassionate man, unable to offer anything more encouraging. He had faced a similar tough decision in his own life, and lost. But they were the king's Royal Musketeers, and it was important that they remained on the same team. "At least we know now where the other stands."

It was sometime in the middle of the night when Duval left his bed to stand before the window. Everything looked so calm—like the calm before the storm. While the night was calm outside, his thoughts stormed within. Walking over to his bedside, he poured a glass of water from a flask and drank in its coolness. Again he lay back down and slipped off into his restlessness.

Jacques sat on the bed as Captain Duval and d'Artagnan entered the room. "How are you feeling?" asked the man with the limp in his gait.

"Better. Thank you, Captain," answered Leponte, in a lowered voice and with a matter-of-fact nod of the head.

Both men could tell she wasn't exactly offering the whole truth. She was favoring her side even as she sat. But the man responsible for the garrison had a more pertinent conversation to tend to. He began, "There's something I've needed to discuss with you."

Jacqueline shot a glance toward her comrade and friend as if to ask if he knew what this was all about. The look she received back told her he knew something, and it was something that made him nervous. D'Artagnan came over and sat next to his clueless friend and put his hand on hers. This made the unnerved Musketeer even more alarmed about what the captain could have to say. But before she could draw her hand back to shun an inappropriate position for two men to be in, Duval blurted, "I know who you are Jacqueline…it is Jacqueline, is it not?"

D'Artagnan felt tension shoot through the panicking woman's body as though a lightening bolt had just struck her. Only his firm grasp on her hand kept her from bolting for the door. But it was that hand that held hers so firmly that sent her the message that she may not have to run. What did this man beside her know that she did not? She had trusted him before, and she quickly decided to trust him now.

After the captain was sure Jacqueline's initial panic was over, he felt it was safe to go on. "I've known from that first day that you were Jacqueline Roget." Once again, he let the shock of hearing her name coming from him settle in. "I also know that it was Mazarin who was to blame for your troubles."

At the mention of Mazarin's name, the angry woman finally found her ability to speak. "Mazarin is a disgrace to his office and to his representation of God!" she said, shakily.

Duval cut her off as if to check her from saying anything she might regret. "And so, I permitted you to stay until I knew what to do with you. It didn't seem right to throw you back to the wolves. And when I saw you win a fight with d'Artagnan—" he could not help but smile at this thought "—I decided to keep you here, under my watchful eye, as long as you were able not to draw notice to your gender."

"Sir, I'm not sure you understand. I killed the Cardinal's captain," she confessed. The seasoned soldier's reaction told her that this was no surprise to him. He had known. "If you knew, then why didn't you turn me in?" She was at a loss.

Duval's smile seemed to warm the chill that had enveloped the room. "Let's just say I had a hunch." He looked her square in the eyes and went on. "But now, after you got hurt, I realized you couldn't keep living like this. God did not make you 'Jacqueline' to hide in a soldier's uniform. I know you are strong, no one here would deny that, but there's no future for you here. It would come to an end, and you would be revealed to Mazarin, to your ruin and to the Musketeers'."

Confused, the female Musketeer asked, "So what are you saying here, Captain?"

"I'm saying—" replied Duval "—that you cannot stay here."

At that, Jacqueline's stomach wrenched. Those had been the words she dreaded most, even more than death. She wanted to be a Musketeer more than she valued her own life. She fought back her tears as she had done before to keep up her masculine façade, but within, she was devastated.

"However—" softly tread a concerned captain "—I want you to go with d'Artagnan to Marseille. I have a friend there whom I believe will be a help to you."

The stunned woman was not sure if she heard any of what he had just said, all she could do was replay his words, 'You cannot stay here.'

"Jacqueline," the young man's voice brought her to her senses. She suddenly realized he was still holding her hand tightly. "Did you hear what the captain said? He wants us to go to Marseille."

Once again, the captain rose from bed as his thoughts turned toward how differently his plans for this young lady who entered his garrison had turned out. Going to Marseille had changed from that of hiding to matrimony for her. God always seemed to surprise Duval at how mysteriously he worked. His thoughts wandered to the story and news the newly engaged man had told him before Jacqueline and he had left for Marseille.

D'Artagnan had asked his fiancée where she went the night before they first talked about getting married. That was the night Duval had told the impersonating soldier he was aware of her identity and wanted to help her by sending her away with d'Artagnan to Marseille. When the young man had asked her where she had gone, he was sure something significant had happened. Something had taken place that caused her to have such a different attitude toward their relationship than she displayed before.

Twenty-four hours before, she had been in shock, that was true, but she also seemed more distant from him. He had held her hand the whole time the captain had unloosed his revelation to her. She had not denied his hand, but she still had not shown she had wanted it either. He knew he would safely take her to Marseille, but he did not want to leave her there and return without her. He wanted more than just knowing she would be in the care of his father in Marseille. He loved her and with that confession he had a growing desire to ask her to marry him.

When d'Artagnan had seen her the next day and asked where she had gone, Jacqueline told him she had been afraid and panicked. She had rashly wanted to run, but found herself instead at the church—where a person often ends up when they are afraid and do not know where to go. She felt such an overwhelming fear of facing her future that when she saw Brother Antoine enter the confessional booth, she decided that was as good a place as any to begin. After she had spilled a good deal of her heart out, Antoine's unexpected response came from the other side of the screen.

He asked her, "Do you know Esther?"

His words caught her off guard. "Esther?" Jacques questioned in a whisper. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure that I know of anyone named Esther." She wondered who he could be talking about.

"No—" she heard a smile in his voice "—not an Esther here and now, but the Esther of the Bible."

"Oh, Esther," Jacques acknowledged, correcting the misunderstanding. "I know a little of her. Why do you ask? I'm not sure I know what you mean." She had heard about this Biblical woman in Mass and in childhood stories.

Brother Antoine explained, "Esther faced such a time as you. She was afraid to stand for the right thing before her king."

Jacqueline was shocked to hear his words. How could Antoine have known what she had been contemplating prayerfully in her heart all these months? It was impossible. She had told no one, not even d'Artagnan. Ever since the palace incident with the alleged "Notong," or invincible sword, the wanted woman had allowed herself to dream of her freedom. His Majesty had offered Jacques anything he asked for. The reluctant hero had not given the king an answer then; he had said he did not know what to ask for and requested time to consider it. She had wanted to ask for her life back, for a pardon for the woman who was Jacqueline Roget and for the head of Cardinal Mazarin. But none of those requests seemed appropriate to ask for that day. So she stalled. She had not asked for the sword, but Louis had given it to her as a souvenir of her bravery. She had not wanted anything to do with that sword and its said powers. She had tossed it into the river. To this day she still had not asked her king for anything. He had given her a signed statement saying he owed her a king's favor, which she held now in her pocket, wanting so much to ask for her freedom with it. She did not know where to start to ask for such madness. Who was she anyway to ask such a thing? And now, Brother Antoine was telling her to look to Esther as her example. Was this just a coincidence?

The patient man broke her thoughts. "Are you still there my friend?"

"Yes, I'm here," she softly replied, returning her thoughts to the present.

His voice once again spoke from the other side of the screen. "As I was saying, Esther, not knowing if the king would extend his royal scepter to her to preserve her life, took a risk. She risked all, for her life and for the lives of those she loved."

Jacqueline could feel her stomach tighten. "So what happened?" Jacques wanted to know. Even if she thought she knew the story, she wanted to hear what relevance this godly man thought it may hold for her life.

"God smiled on her," he answered. It was obvious that Brother Antoine had smiled when he had spoken.

She sat there for a moment, trying to process the meaning behind his words. "Do you think God will smile on me?" Jacques asked quietly, while her heart beat rapidly in anticipation of his answer.

"I do not know…Yet, who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?" After a long silence, he offered, "Let us pray together." They had spent some time in prayer before Jacques left that night.

That was the night she truly began to hope again. It was the night before d'Artagnan and she revealed their hearts and spoke openly about their feelings for each other. A turning point had been reached in her life that finally permitted her to show affection for the man who asked for her hand in marriage. She no longer wanted to remain frozen in fear with the borrowed life she was living, but, she wanted to move ahead. She willing said, "Yes," to d'Artagnan, his love, her heart and her future. She was ready to risk all, to see if she too would feel the smiling face of God.

Duval realized that morning had come. He could feel the rising of the sun warm the room. His night of memories had come to an end and the troubles of the future were about to begin. Soon the garrison would be full of life as the slumbering Musketeers awoke and exchanged guard duties for the day. There was much to do. He had a mole to catch and King Louis' coronation and birthday celebration security details to assign.


	5. Chapter 5

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 5**

**Parrying Moves and Mazarin's Riposte**

**Author's Note: **In swordplay, parrying is the deflection of an attack, while a riposte is a sharp, swift response.

Night had passed almost uneventfully for the four brothers-in-arms. They had spent most of the night reminiscing and catching up on each other's latest experiences. Aside from d'Artagnan and Jacqueline's trip to Marseille and wedding, there was the usual relating of romances and rhapsodies for Ramon and inventions and talk of the ferret for Siroc. The poet had accomplished in one night more rhapsodizing than his companions had ever been able to put up with before at one sitting. Long after a good deal of talk and laughter had passed, the married couple finally retired to their bedchamber, while their two comrades stood guard outside until morning had broken.

"Get up you lazy heads," badgered Ramon as he rapped on the slumbering couple's door. "You've had plenty of beauty rest. Now it's Siroc's and my turn to sleep for awhile!" The tall guard and his companion anxiously stood outside of the young couple's temporary suite awaiting a reply.

At last, moans could be heard from the other side of the door. "Is it morning so soon?" a muffled man's voice grumbled from within.

A tired looking Spaniard looked at his fellow guardsman who stood there rubbing his eyes and piqued, "Can you believe this? Not even a month of being married and the man's already gone soft." Lowering his head to the door, he spoke with agitation, "Si, Señor, and your security detail is now walking out on you."

A freshly awakened man opened the door and appeared in a daze. His hair and clothing were unkempt with the appearance of having just rolled out of bed. "Anything happen while we were out?" he asked, looking back and forth between the two with a contented, half-asleep smirk on his face. He yawned widely and raised his arm to lean against the door jam.

"Not unless you consider the delivery of your laundry news," answered Siroc as he shoved a large white sack into d'Artagnan's stomach, making the married man relinquish his cavalier stance and double over. "We're tired. We'll see you later at the Café Nouveau." The blond-haired soldier and his comrade departed, leaving their stupefied friend to stand in his doorway exposed to the hustle of morning vendors setting up their carts.

"What's going on?" Jacqueline called from inside, still snuggled under the covers. She had not heard the sound of voices for a few moments and wondered why her husband still stood at the door.

"Nothing, just laundry delivery," he answered as he came to his senses and closed the door, shutting out the busyness of the morning street outside. The young man recalled that this was alone time with his wife, and he was not anxious to let it slip away so quickly. He climbed back in bed, pulled her closely, and held her firmly with one arm around her waist. "Did I tell you that I loved you today?" he spoke softly.

"No." She smiled with her eyes still closed. "Unless you've been talking in your sleep." It felt good to be in the warmth of his embrace, to be physically close to the man she shared every other part of her life with.

"Well, I do love you and I don't want one day to go by that I don't tell you so," he promised her as he gently stroked her hair and caressed her cheek with his free hand.

Opening her eyes to meet his, she assured him, "And I love you..." She drew him close to reciprocate the embrace she felt from him. Lightly brushing the side of his face with hers, she breathed his name into his ear for only him to hear.

"Mmm, my mother was the only one who ever used to call me by my name," he said with a groan, pulling his face back with an expression of mild distaste. He was not fond of his birth-name and granted very few people knowledge of what it was. Jacqueline had gotten it out of him on their way to Marseille, saying she needed to know the name of the man she was about to marry.

Intrigued that she had found a weak spot in the man who knew so many of hers, she fingered his shirt collar, teasingly, as she spoke. "Well, it sounds like I'm in good company," she laughed lightly, knowing how privileged she was for knowing it in the first place. Looking at him in mock seriousness, she said, "But, if it makes you feel any better, I promise to use it only when we're alone, or perhaps, only when I'm very upset with you." She broke into a wide smile and her eyes glistened with playfulness.

"You sure have a way to get through my defenses," d'Artagnan confessed, backing off slightly with a quizzical look on his face. "How do you do that? You could get me to agree to almost anything."

With renewed seriousness, Jacqueline looked deeply into the eyes of the man she loved. She saw tenderness there and she wondered why she had not seen it when they had first met. She had thought him to be an egotistical, domineering pig—the kind of man she had told her father she had no intention of marrying. But there she was, married to him.

She wondered how it was that she had gotten through his defenses, his flirtatious behavior. She had discovered she was attracted to him almost from the start when he had flirted with the dressmaker's daughter right in her presence. It had bothered Jacqueline that she had actually felt jealous. But it was not the flirtatious behavior he showed toward the seamstress that the young woman posing as a soldier wanted. Jacqueline had enough problems to deal with in her life without making her daily life unbearable by mistakenly succumbing to a one night stand with a fellow Musketeer, let alone, by the only one who shared the secret of her true identity.

But as time went on, she saw his flirtatious behavior with other women taper off. He spent more time with her. Their relationship was becoming more satisfying to him than any other fling. To have a woman for one night did not fill the desire in his heart like a woman who could compliment the man d'Artagnan was on the inside. His flirtatious behavior with her had given way to friendship and then before she had realized it, they had become inseparable. Life without him would have been empty. Jacqueline was not entirely sure just what had happened, but she was sure of one thing, she loved him fiercely.

He looked at her pondering expression and wondered. "Why do you love me?" He broke the silence. His eyes darted back and forth, studying hers as if trying to read her mind.

To this question, she also could not help to mix a little fun along with the truth. She felt that free with this man that she could be relaxed and let her serious front down. God knew she needed a man like d'Artagnan. A delighted smile warmed her face. "Because you are noble, generous, unselfish, passionate, and—" she broke out in a wide grin and tickled his side "—you're my husband."

A short, light-hearted wrestling match followed that ended in a morning leisurely spent together. And for the couple, no morning would be complete without including their routine sword drill.

After completing their match, the newlyweds readied themselves and left for the café. As they walked down the street, they both noticed the cold looks they received from women. One young lady walked by holding a handkerchief, sobbing. When the distraught girl looked at them, she broke out crying even harder.

The couple walked on in astonishment at what they saw. When Jacqueline stopped to ask a woman what the fresh fruit on her cart was that day, the woman rudely replied to her, "Prunes, Madame d'Artagnan?" Then the vendor turned to go about her business and ignored the wife of the famed Musketeer's son.

Jacqueline walked away in awe and asked her escort, "What's up with her? What seems to be the problem with all of them?" She looked around, acutely aware of all the heads they were turning.

Sharing his lovely bride's amazement, d'Artagnan deducted, "I think they're jealous of you being with me. News sure travels fast in this town." He held his wife's arm in his while making quizzical peripheral sweeps of their drawn attention.

Jacqueline's brow lowered as she considered a possibility of the gossip's source. In her piqued irritability at the thought, she released her companion's arm and folded her own before her. "What do you want to guess it was that Mireille who started the gossip? She's the one who did our laundry last night," the suspecting woman requited. "Who knows what that talkative little snit has been saying about us? I'm sure all Paris knows by now."

Her spouse saw the humor in her accusation and his countenance shifted to relay it. "And to think she once wanted to marry you," he reminded her, teasingly. He recalled how it had been Mireille who told her father she was convinced Jacques Leponte had wanted to marry her. She was so hard to persuade otherwise that the appalled woman Musketeer finally had to put on a red dress and blonde wig to present herself to Mireille as Jacques' fiancée. Both of the d'Artagnans looked at each other and shared a private laugh at this memory.

Jacqueline confessed, "Great, when I was dressed as a man, I was alienated from everyone. And now that I'm Madame d'Artagnan, I'm still alienated from everyone." She shook her head at the irony of it.

"Ah, the burden of being a d'Artagnan," he joked in a melancholy tone. "Welcome to my world." Once again, he offered his arm for his beautiful wife to take, and they both proudly continued on to the café.

Shortly thereafter at the Café Nouveau, four Musketeers sat and finished off their meals. Although only three of them were officially dressed as soldiers, the fourth still held an honorary title among them. Jacqueline, dress or not, still was as sharply prepared for any skirmish a rogue could toss at her. It seemed all too often that was exactly what took place at the Café Nouveau.

"You lost this morning, my dear," flaunted d'Artagnan. "Drinks are on you." Looking away from his perturbed subject, he demonstrated a bragging grin to the other men.

"Ooh—" Ramon winced "—you'd think that behavior would have stopped at the altar." The Spaniard watched his female friend for signs of retribution.

"D'Artagnan, do you still expect your wife to fight for her meals?" Siroc questioned. "That's cold." Although his words suggested scruples, his grin suggested a darker application of humor at his friend's brashness. He looked down to hide his smirk in his empty coffee mug.

"What?" teased the cad, smiling with a clash of guilty innocence. "It was a fair fight. And you can't expect us to spend our entire time in passion. Besides, it keeps us in shape while were away from the garrison."

"Don't worry about it, it's my pleasure," a very annoyed Jacqueline said as she rose from the table and hastily grabbed the coffee mugs. "I don't plan on losing often." Her husband's flippant attitude when it came to their privacy made her uneasy. She would have to talk to him later about that. But even more than that, she hated to lose a drill with him because she truly disliked the arrogant behavior that came with it.

"You have to admit," Siroc observed, impressed by his female friend's sure way of carrying herself, "Jacques hasn't lost her savvy."

No sooner had Jacqueline left their table to reorder a second round of coffee for the foursome, than a loud group of men clad in red entered the café. "Mademoiselle," a husky uniformed man directed his voice toward the female making her way toward the counter, "a round of drinks for me and these thirsty men."

Jacqueline rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Then you'd best get them yourselves."

Not in the mood to be slighted, the man roared, "How dare you talk to me like that? You lowly barmaid…"

But before he could say more, he was interrupted by the sound of screeching wooden chairs against the floor as three sober faced Musketeers abruptly rose to the lady's defense. Recalling Captain Duval's displeasure at her hastiness to begin brawls, the female soldier spoke to disquiet the scene. "I meant that I do not work here," she directed to the red uniformed man, "I was just getting coffee for my companions over there."

The guard looked at her and then at her Musketeer companions and growled. Quickly looking around, Jacqueline saw a waitress and motioned for her to help the guards. "But, Mademoiselle, we would prefer your service," the slighted man challenged to her back as she resumed her walk to the bar.

"All right, Captain, I tried," the young woman spoke under her breath before she set the mugs down on the counter and turned to face the defiant man.

"Wait!" d'Artagnan flew across the floor to come between her and her adversary. "I believe you would have a fight with me before you disgrace this young woman. I just happen to be her husband," he said with angered punctuation.

"I should have known the hussy belonged to a Musketeer," the guard riveted with a look of disdain.

"Husband—" Jacqueline encouraged, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor "—Are you just going to stand there and listen to this sorry, sniveling excuse for a uniform, belittle your wife?"

Surprised by Jacqueline's comment, the chivalrous man raised his brow. Then with his whole face showing extreme amusement, he responded, "No, my dearest, I just wondered if you might want to take him for yourself."

Without further warning, d'Artagnan sprung toward his opponent ready to draw his sword. But before he could raise response from his opponent, one of the guards interrupted from the loitering group. He spoke in a slow and exaggerated tone, "It's the Cardinal's orders, 'No stirring up fights.' He wants us to keep the hoodlums of Paris quiet until after the coronation. He says he's got something else planned." The red-coated man hinted as though he were ribbing his comrade without letting on to their opposing crowd some privy information they knew of.

Gradually, the bile tempered guard relinquished his poise, while still keeping his eyes on Jacqueline and d'Artagnan, "Something else planned, eh?" he called over his shoulder to his comrades.

The four Musketeers exchanged questioning looks with each other. In today's confrontation, an all-out sword fight had been deflected. But what had the man said—'Something else planned'? What could the Cardinal possibly be planning?

"Something else!" sounded Cardinal Mazarin. His insolent voice could be heard throughout several rooms of the palace. "Bring me something else to eat. I don't want these pitiful vegetables." The sour-faced man tossed the napkin on his platter and motioned for the servant to take it away.

"But, Your Eminence." In a tail-tucked stance, the cook meekly explained, "They're called 'green beans,' and the king is rather fond of them. He says he'd like to make them the vegetable of France. Besides, they are good for you, and you did ask for something soft to eat. Perhaps if I had them cut into thin strips they would be easier to…" He attempted to please the man of importance with an imaginary finger demonstration of how thinly sliced the vegetable could be made.

"I don't want them in thin strips, take them away," Mazarin repeated brazenly while holding the side of his face, nursing his sore tooth. His tooth ache had been bothering him all day, and he was in a foul mood. His chef's idea of 'soft' food had not improved his ill mood.

"Yes, Your Eminence," the cowered cook obliged and scampered away with the unwanted platter of vegetables.

As the cook exited, a servant arrived in his place. "What now?" Mazarin asked unpleasantly, still holding his jaw.

"Cardinal." The man bowed without expression. "There is a Musketeer here to see you."

Suddenly, the man in the red cap seemed to forget his tooth ache. At the announcement of his newly arrived guest, his interest became heightened. "Then show him in," Mazarin condoned with a wave of his hand. Rising from his chair, he stood with hands piously folded to meet his visitor.

A young man dressed in a Musketeer's uniform entered the room. He was a plain looking man with no apparent reason to draw undue attention to himself. For that reason, he had been the perfect choice for Mazarin's special assignment.

"I assume you have a report for me?" inquired the man in red with genuine intrigue. "What are the recent doings of our Musketeer friends? Tell me." He awaited the reply with raised brow.

"Cardinal Mazarin—" plainly stated the man "—I have been in the Musketeer garrison for over a month now, and I have little to report that has not been ordinary routine." He was a matter-of-fact man and would not report impertinently.

"Routine, routine," Mazarin mimicked, now waving his hand in trivial gesture, while walking about the room. "Please tell me I'm paying you for more than routine to report!" His countenance angered. "Surely there must be preparations for the coronation and birthday celebration…roster changes, guests…" Obviously the man lacked intuitiveness and needed a little help in making relevant connections between events.

"Guests!" interrupted the informant in revelation. "Yes, one of the Musketeers arrived several days ago with a sword-fighting wife…d'Artagnan I believe it was. His wife was given special security detail." He returned to his original, unthinking stance and awaited his perpetrator's interpretation.

News of a sword-fighting female in the garrison seemed to stop the Cardinal in his tracks. "Tell me more about this woman," the Cardinal encouraged.

Once again, the reconnoitering man released seemingly relevant data. "Besides wielding a sword extremely well, even against a Musketeer, she was an attractive looking woman. She had a well chiseled face and wavy dark hair she wore loose, down to her shoulder blades." He drew his hand down his jaw-line and showed the length of hair as he recalled the woman's features. All was stated in the same, unfeeling manner.

Mazarin took a turn about the room as he pondered the familiarity of this description. His pursed lips showed him to be deep in thought as well as unintentionally massaging his sore tooth. With sudden realization, he came to a full stop and considered. Could this be the same woman wanted for the murder of his Captain? Mazarin walked briskly over to a desk and retrieved a parchment. He held up Jacqueline Roget's wanted poster before the man and asked, "Is this the woman you saw?" He eagerly anticipated the forthright reply.

Looking to the man in red and back to the wanted poster, the man moved in to gain a clearer look. After a moment of reflection, the impersonating Musketeer slowly nodded his head in affirmation and replied, "That is the woman."

With an evil grin slowly sweeping over Mazarin's face, he smoothly acknowledged, "Well, well, this is useful news. That little sword-fighting tramp has become the wife of our beloved d'Artagnan? So that's what's become of her. Oh, this is very useful news, indeed," he continued in exaggerated scheming while gazing off into the distance. Then he turned back toward the man in the Musketeer uniform and commanded, "Go back to the garrison and await my orders." The man in red's face became stern.

As the visitor bowed and left, Cardinal Mazarin called for his servant to fetch him the party coordinator. A brilliant idea had just come to his devious mind. "Tell our party coordinator to bring a playwright with him. The king would like a play with Musketeers in it for his birthday celebration. Tell him to write a play with Musketeers in it—lots of Musketeers."

After the servant had exited, Mazarin continued his plans aloud to no one in particular. "Louis would like his Musketeers to be a part of his celebration. Then Musketeers he will have. There will be Musketeers everywhere. And my special team of guards will be dressed as those king's marauders. Musketeers will think they're actors, and the people will think they're Musketeers. In all the confusion, I'll manage to ruin both the murderous wench and discredit the famous Musketeers all in one night." A devious smile slowly transformed his face to one that was unsuitable for his attire.

Mazarin intended to strike them hard and hurt them fatally. He would wait and make his first move on the night of the celebration. If planned right, it would appear that his adversaries had simply fallen into his grasp. He wanted Louis' coronation first. He dare not jeopardize that. To have a youthful king that would be easily bendable to his whims would be advantageous. He despised that royalty by birth should rule, but Mazarin was not so imprudent as to think France was ready to accept a Cardinal as an outright ruler. He had to play by the rules, but that would not stop him from trying to rule unofficially. His throbbing tooth ache only amplified the pounding of his devious conspiracies in his head. He would bring down those who continually got in his way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 6**

**Ratted Out**

**Chapter Description:** The Musketeers attempt to rat out Cardinal Mazarin's mole.

In the Musketeer garrison late that night, four busy minds were plotting how they would bring down their still-at-large mole. Siroc had been working hard preparing their little furry agent for his mission. It had been agreed upon that the captain would not be informed of their attempt unless they succeeded. Apparently, earlier that day, Duval had entered the lab unannounced and received a potent dusting of the ferret's musk. The perpetrator had taken a lot of heat for that. He did not want to risk jeopardizing the future of this experiment if tonight's attempt failed to turn up their mole. If the man had not seen Mazarin in the past several days, they would have to wait for another night to rat him out.

"Ok, it's time to bring this guy down," the poet announced, ready for show-time. "Compadre Siroc, tell us what you'd have us to do." Ramon walked over to where the curious little ferret sat on a shelf, taking in the smells in the room. He extended his hand warily toward the animal, offering it a nibble of cheese he had been snacking on.

"Just be patient, my friend," Siroc coolly responded while spreading out a map of the barracks on his laboratory table. He looked up momentarily in slight annoyance. "And don't feed him that cheese. It's not good for him." Returning his absorption to his drawing, the strategist set out to assign their positioning. "We'll need to post one on either end of the halls as we move along. While the third acts as a relay between me and the others, I will be busy keeping an eye on the Mustela Putorious Furo." Finishing his postings, he looked up at the other three. "Any questions?"

Jacqueline wore a puzzled expression. "Wait a minute," she figured aloud, "that would take four of us to pull this off." From her reclined position against the table where her husband had perched himself, she looked to the inventor for explanation.

Toying with an odd looking gadget of the inventor's, d'Artagnan tossed her a sideward glance. "Nice math," he teased.

"Very funny," his wife responded, looking him right back in the face with a smirk. Then addressing them all, she protested, "But I don't think I should be involved in this."

"What do you mean, amiga, not involved?" Ramon frowned, raising his hands in gesture. "What about brothers-in-arms? You're about as involved in this as any of us."

"That's not what I meant," Jacqueline explained. "It's just that a woman in the garrison hallways in the middle of the night is bound to draw attention. The captain would be furious if he found out I had been here at night."

"You could change into your Jacques uniform," Siroc suggested with his mischievous on-to-something grin.

With a redirected look of interest, her husband joined in on the scheme. "Come on, Jacques, we need you to make this work," d'Artagnan pleaded with his pathetically sweet, persuading voice. He ribbed his wife with his prodding.

Rolling her eyes at his attempt, she tried to ignore him and addressed everyone. "But you heard the captain," she argued, holding her ground. "Jacques Leponte is not to make an appearance until your father gets here." She ended her address with a point-blank stare at her poking spouse.

"Please, Jacques," d'Artagnan continued to ride on her, seemingly unmoved by her glare. "You don't actually have to make an appearance. It will be dark and no one will probably even see you."

Jacqueline's attempt was futile. She closed her eyes, shook her head as she turned away from his pathetic, child-like behavior, and could not resist a smile. Reopening her eyes, she scanned the room to see all three men intently awaiting her reply. "Oh, well, alright," she resigned to three victorious faces. "But I still think it's a bad idea." She relinquished that where three of them were to go, the fourth was doomed to follow.

"Now," Siroc resumed with a grin. He pulled out a sealed bag with a cloth in it and held it up for all to see. "I borrowed this from our beloved Cardinal's laundry recently. Never mind how I did that. But, more importantly, I've been training our little ferret here to follow scent trails. All we have to do is give him a whiff and watch where he goes. If anyone here in the garrison has been in the Cardinal's presence lately, our friend should lead us right to him." He looked around to see how his plan was being received.

"Sounds simple," remarked d'Artagnan, dropping the corners of his mouth. "What are we waiting for?"

"Let's get to work," their leader for the evening instructed. "Jacques, you change and take up your position. We'll all be ready to go at…let's say, one o'clock. Everyone should be asleep by then." He looked around the room at his abettors. "Any questions?" He was met with no response so they all dispersed until their predetermined rendezvous time.

At precisely one o'clock in the morning all four Musketeers were ready and assigned their positions—d'Artagnan on one end of the hall bringing up the rear, Jacqueline, dressed as Jacques, on the other in the forefront, and Ramon acting as the relay between Siroc and the others. The man with their undercover agent carefully uncovered the ferret from underneath his Musketeer uniform and allowed it to sniff Mazarin's cloth. "Here you go little fellow. Take a good whiff of this. That's it. Now show us where Mazarin's man is," he said as he gently placed the ferret on the garrison floor and watched.

At first the small, cream colored animal held its place as if unsure of where to go. Its nose bobbed up and down as it studied the scents in the room. Then all at once it patted off. Its trainer and the others snuck after it around several hallways and through an adjoining lounge. It took effort for all four of the sleuths to keep on its trail and take their posts. Finally, it stopped and whiffed the air by a room belonging to a new recruit.

"Wait!" whispered the grinning scientist to his relay man. "I think we may have our man." As the owner kept an eye on his subject, the ferret unexpectedly began to wiggle itself under the door. "Oh, no," Siroc informed the tall Musketeer, "I believe we have a bit of a problem."

"Problem?" asked Ramon and then he noticed his comrade pointing to the recruit's door. "Oh no, we've got a problem," he echoed as he witnessed the reason for his comrade's concern.

No one had anticipated the ferret actually entering anyone's room. Wanting to know what all the commotion was about, Jacqueline whispered back from a point beyond where Siroc and Ramon were, "What's the problem?" In waiting for a reply, she nervously spied back over her shoulder to see if anyone might be coming, and then dared to come in closer. D'Artagnan also looked at them from the direction of the lounge they had just come from for an explanation. All at once, the four watched in horror as everything but the ferret's tail disappeared into the room.

Siroc whisked over to the door but it was too late. "Rats!" he exclaimed. "Who made the clearance on these doors so high up?" He knew that if the man woke up and startled the ferret, everyone on that entire wing would know they were there. That would not only spoil their chances of catching the mole, but he did not even want to think about what the captain's response would be. The ingenious man had to get it out without waking the recruit up. Kneeling down, he put his ear to the door and listened for any sound of an awakening occupant. Hearing none, he made a soft clicking sound with his tongue, attempting to coax the animal out. When the ferret did not reappear, he thought for a brief moment, and then felt around in his pockets. With a look of discovery on his face, he pulled out a small shinny object. "I can see what's going on in there with this reflective surface," he informed the others.

Giving Siroc only a brief moment, a worried and impatient Ramon asked, "What do you see?" He disliked being at the mercy of this unpredictable animal.

"Well," the crouched over man whispered his report, "There's a man in his bed…" He adjusted the small object in his hand and continued, "There's the ferret. He's on the nightstand…"

"Yes?" Jacques asked restlessly, not liking being kept in the dark. She checked around the corner of the hall she was in to make sure no one would walk in on their precarious scene without warning.

"He's eating something. It looks like…cheese!" the scientist's reply was one of shock as he pulled his head back away from the door to rethink his situation.

"Cheese?" asked d'Artagnan, perplexed. "I thought cheese wasn't good for it." He did not like the uncertain expression worn by the man in charge of the project.

"It's not," Siroc shot in a frustrated tone, "but Ramon kept bringing it into my lab and feeding it to him!" The scientist truly disliked these moments when his brilliant ideas seemed to backfire on him, even if it was the fault of his always hungry accomplice.

Everyone's attention reverted to their guilty comrade, who could do nothing but smile back weakly. "What? A man has to eat when he's cooped up in a small room all day with a mad scientist." He gleamed innocently back at his loathing friends.

"Great, this cheese eating animal is going to get us all in a lot of trouble if we don't get him out of there before we're discovered," Jacqueline exasperated. She could not believe she was caught in the middle of another one of their hair-brained schemes.

Still trying to make an excuse, the Spaniard protested, "I could find a more hospitable environment in the dungeons than Siroc's lab."

"Quiet!" hushed Jacqueline, "Any more talk from you, and you may just get your wish." With that the four Musketeers continued pondering over their situation in silence, while the two end-posts kept their aloofness for unwanted company.

"I know," resolved the scientist, "I just have to find a way to distract it and get it out of there." He searched his pockets and pulled something out. "Here, unless any of you have a better idea, I'll try luring it out with this string." He knelt before the door and attempted to feed the string under the opening. All four Musketeers held their breath.

"Footsteps," Jacqueline suddenly started, alerting the others. She could not see who it was, but there was no doubt someone was coming.

"Food stuffs?" Ramon questioned, thinking she had come up with a better alternative than Siroc's string.

Jacqueline looked at him in irritated amazement. "No! Footsteps, footsteps," she emphasized with her boots. "Someone's coming!"

"Oh, footsteps!" Ramon and d'Artagnan said in enlightened unison. All four accomplices could hear the footsteps approaching now.

"Quick, Siroc!" the Frenchman said as he rushed to reinforce Jacqueline's position. "You have to get that thing out of there before whoever that is finds us here." He would do what he had to, to keep their anonymity, but even this cocky man did not think the garrison was a good place to have to assault someone.

"Don't you think I know that?" the inventor answered distractedly. He wondered why his ingeniousness always got tested under such pressure. Hastily, he continued feeding the string under the recruit's door, trying to get the ferret's attention with it. "Here we go. That's it. Come on, boy," the owner coaxed. By now the small animal had noticed the string and was curiously following it to the door. "Almost there."

"Good, because whoever it is coming down the next hallway and is almost here," Ramon exclaimed, nervously.

"Got it!" Siroc triumphed in a whisper.

"Got what?" A gravelly voice asked from behind the now standing blond-haired man.

"Captain!" all four Musketeers exclaimed in genuine surprise. They had not heard anyone approach from the direction Duval had suddenly appeared from.

"Yes, Captain," he echoed in an amazed tone. Then with an agitated, suspicious look on his face, he demanded, "What in blazes are the four of you doing here?" At that, Duval's expression registered a fourth Musketeer there that should not have been—Jacques.

"Sir…" Jacques began her explanation, feeling he might be easier on her than the others.

But she was interrupted by Duval's sudden address, "D'Artagnan!" To their surprise, the captain looked past them to the legendary man himself who stood in the hall behind them. Apparently, he had been the set of footsteps the Musketeers had heard approaching. "What are you doing here?"

Not sure if his old friend meant here, as in Paris, or here, as in standing in the hallway in the middle of the night, and assuming he probably meant both, he answered, "Apparently Jacques and I have just arrived." He motioned in amusement at the shame-faced young woman. Charles d'Artagnan had also noticed that Jacqueline had taken her personification of Jacques prematurely.

Duval looked at the four of them again with renewed anger, "What are you doing about at this hour anyway?"

Jacqueline was about to give him an answer when Siroc headed her off, "We were…up to meet d'Artagnan, Sir." His last words sounded unsure.

"Meet d'Artagnan? How on earth did you know he was coming tonight?" Duval drew back in agitated wonderment.

All eyes traveled to the man with all the brilliant ideas as if they too wondered how he would explain that one. "Well, sir, didn't d'Artagnan…" and he gestured toward the son. "Didn't he mention it to you?" At this point, the inventor's voice sounded shaky as he hoped his partner in crime could come up with something witty to say.

Everyone's eyes now trailed to the son of the legend, including his father's. In a rare moment, the outspoken, witty young man stood speechless. All he could manage was a weak smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

"Oh, you bunch of conspirators, what am I to do with you? Well, let's not just stand here and wake the whole barracks up at this hour." He waved them off. "Why don't you join me in my office, Charles?" he invited the older Musketeer, freshly returned from abroad. Then to the remainder of the bunch, he threatened, "The rest of you get to bed and get some sleep or I'll put you on kitchen duty as of tomorrow."

That was enough of a mention to get them all moving. D'Artagnan brushed his father's shoulder as he passed him and quietly piqued, "Thanks for the cover, Father." Somehow, even in his helpfulness, his namesake's cavalier attitude had a way of rubbing him wrong.

Unsure of what his son meant by his comment, he gave him a half smile, half frown, and replied, "Anytime, son." Then he took off after Duval. "Did I ever tell you about…." his voice trailed off down the hallway.

"Whew, that was close, mi amigo." The Spaniard exhaled in relief as he slapped Jacques on the back. "The captain would have had us peeling potatoes for a month."

Jacqueline closed her eyes with his landed thud and shot him a dirty look. "Ramon, I don't even want to talk about it. I told you it was a bad idea." Shifting her angry glare to the blond-haired man who suggested the idea in the first place, she added, "Besides that, why didn't you want me to tell the captain what we had found?"

Siroc had been trying to keep the ferret still under his coat the whole time. That had been quite a feat, considering the animal rarely stopped moving. Now as the small group walked back to their quarters, the small furry head popped out from under his vest and the animal climbed up over his shoulders. "Because we didn't find anything," he deducted. "I'd call this attempt failed."

Jacqueline was a sea on the reasoning behind his deduction. "Failed? Are you trying to tell me that you believe that room doesn't belong to the mole?" the befuddled woman determined to know.

"That's exactly what he's saying," said her husband. Then quizzically glancing at his master-minding comrade, he added, "Aren't you?" Honestly, he never could be absolutely sure what his friend was thinking.

Still upset with the unpredictable poet's effect on all his hours of training, Siroc looked at the others and said, "All we can safely say is that this ferret has developed an affinity for cheese…thanks to the Ramon variant."

"What?" replied an astounded Spaniard. "Don't look at me. I told you it was a bad idea to train a rat to do the job," complained their tall companion. "It looks like we're the ones who got ratted out!"

"It's not a rat," the scientist defended.

"I know, I know, it's a Muffaletta. Or something like that," replied the Spaniard, looking like he had heard it a hundred times, but still did not care. With that, three Musketeers looked at Ramon with incredulous looks. Only this man with a voracious appetite could change an animal's name into something to eat.

Seemingly, it was back to the drawing board for the four Musketeers. They had to come up with some way to rat out their mole and discover what Mazarin was up to. But for now it appeared they would have to put their project on hold until after they returned from the coronation at Reims.


	7. Chapter 7

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 7**

**Road to Reims**

**Chapter Description: **The Musketeers must seeLouis must arrive at Reims safely for his coronation.

Several days had passed since the night of Charles d'Artagnan's arrival in Paris. He had written the queen prior to his coming, requesting her Majesty's audience on a matter of personal importance. With the timeliness of him being in town for the coronation, the legendary Musketeer had offered his services in escorting the royal carriages on the road to the city of Reims. He stated there would be no need for him to make a visitation with her at the palace beforehand, since there would be time enough for conversation en route. He had signed the letter, "Affectionately, Charles d'Artagnan."

Queen Anne knew the man well enough to know the matter was of some implicit importance. He had purposefully not wanted to alert any prying eyes and ears within the palace by meeting her privately there. It was important enough for him to have addressed his letter directly to her, and it was important enough for him to wait to speak with her in the privacy of her carriage. France's acting regent wondered what business he had that would bring him all the way to meet alone with her. At present, the carriages had arrived at the palace, and her wait was nearly over.

Security reasons had warranted for Louis to remain at the well-guarded palace until the morning of the coronation. Reims was a long ride from Paris, and for once, Captain Duval and Cardinal Mazarin had been in agreement on a matter—risks were not to be taken. It fell to the Musketeers to make sure their future king safely made the speedy trek to receive his crown. This called, however, for a long day of riding and an early morning at the garrison.

At daybreak, Jacques Leponte knocked softly on the barrack door of her alias' husband. "D'Artagnan," she whispered only loud enough to be heard through the door. To her surprise, it was 'the' d'Artagnan that opened the door. Grappling for words, she apologized, "Sorry, Sir. I wasn't aware you had taken your son's quarters."

"I hadn't planned on it, but the captain said something about standing arrangements." The older man grinned good-naturedly. He gave her a quick glance up and down. It had been the first time he had gotten a good look at Jacqueline dressed as Jacques since he learned of her identity. The hallway had been dark the other night, and he had not noticed how changed she looked in a Musketeer's uniform from when he had seen her in Marseille. He had to admit, the thought of his son's wife being a soldier had taken some getting used to. Apparently, he still had some adjusting to do.

Feeling his studying gaze obviously intensified the nervousness she felt in the abruptness of their encounter. Trying to pass it off with indifference, she fumbled for words to break their awkward silence, "Sir, if you could tell me where I might find…"

But before she could finish asking, her husband and son of the legend, walked up from behind and startled her. "Good morning, beautiful," he romantically pressed near her ear.

"D'Artagnan!" His outwardly appalled wife quickly looked about the hallway for unsuspected witnesses to his inappropriate behavior, and then addressed him in a curt, hushed voice, "Would you please not do that around here."

His father was oddly amused by the strange banter played out before him that Jacqueline and his son had seemingly rehearsed so many times before. He gathered that his son rather enjoyed the peculiar predicament of his wife's male personification and the effect it had on their interaction while among others. Though the observer could not blame his junior for the provocation he displayed, he eyed the couple curiously at the unnatural appearance of it all.

Giving no hint of being affected by her annoyance, the young cad glanced at each of them with a light-hearted smirk and announced, "Carriages await and we should not keep them."

There were two carriages in the royal company on the Road to Reims—the first Louis' and the second Anne's. Heading up the security of the front carriage were d'Artagnan the elder, with his son and Jacqueline on either side. Following behind, guarding the second carriage, were Ramon and Siroc on either side. Captain Duval took up the rear. All other traffic from the palace, including Cardinal Mazarin, had gone on to Reims the day before. Fast travel for this band had been planned so as to minimize exposure of Louis to any possible assassination attempt.

Despite the potential danger or quick pace, there was much excitement and anticipation for the upcoming event. The boy was nervous, not so much for the danger that threatened his own life, but for the fact that the long awaited day had finally arrived. Today was his birthday. Although the celebration would have to wait until his return to Paris tomorrow, today his age made him candidate to officially claim the crown. And no time was being wasted to place the crown on his head. France seemed anxious to claim her king. While others seemed anxious to keep him from arriving.

After the caravan had put some distance between itself and Paris, Charles called for the carriages to stop for a brief rest. Once the animals were refreshed, the legend handed the reins of his steed over to his son and told him he wanted a few moments alone with the queen. Before her carriage lurched forward, he climbed in. The royal figurehead and Musketeer's eyes immediately met and locked gaze. "Your Majesty." Her loyal guardian initiated their greeting and gave obeisance by kissing her hand.

Silently the distinguished woman nodded in reflected pretense of his politic manner as he sat across from her on the padded bench. With her head slightly aslant in cool suspicion, she watched him with anticipation. She was no fool to his outward display of frivolous gestures, this was her old friend and she knew him better than that.

"I have reliable report the queen gets along well these days," he began coyly, still delightfully eyeing her with a myriad of unspoken sentiment.

Warmed by his notice, she opened her fan to wave off the flushed feeling. "Charles." Anne looked beyond his playfulness and scolded, "Surly you did not come all this way to chat with me on my wellbeing. What really brings you to see me? I could not make anything from your letter."

D'Artagnan got to the point. "Anne." And at hearing her name spoken so informally by the man seated across from her, the queen's concern became even more poignant. Today he was speaking to her as a confidant. "What are friends for, but to bear one another's burdens…and secrets?"

Their eyes met with a fount of emotion at his cleverly disguised mention of their shared history and its intended weight upon his present request. Realizing she held her fan stopped in mid-air, she lowered it to her lap. With intrepid caution, the queen found her voice, "Charles, are you in some sort of trouble?"

Seeing his point well-taken, he had no desire to heighten her curiosity and have her delve too deeply in his affairs; thus, he softened his look to one of a caddish smile and diverted her attention. "If you recall my last visit, everything turned out remarkably well, considering the circumstances."

She knew he had been referring to her affair with the opportunistic Duke who had stolen sensitive documents from a palace safe-box. Charles and his son had together remedied the situation, leaving the queen's involvement anonymous in the matter. His redirection threw her off for a moment, but quickly suspecting his diversion, she greatly resented his use of her vulnerability. In her warbled, piqued tone, she protested "Now you are toying with me. You did not come all this way to rub my past crimes in my face!" Anne breathed deeply and looked away, showing her profound displeasure at him resurfacing the memory.

"No, of course not," he remarked, grinning all the while. He did know how to get under this woman's skin, but he did have a favor to ask and he had to get on with it. Sighing, he leaned forward, holding his sword hilt off to the side, and lowered his voice in seriousness, "I only bring it up to discuss an equally sensitive matter. Only this time, the favor to be asked is mine."

Surprised by the sudden change in his demeanor, she returned her gaze to the notoriously trouble-attracting Gascon. Dropping her defensiveness, she inquired with alarmed interest, "Charles, what devilish situation have you gotten yourself into?"

Without skirting the issue any further, he explained Jacques' intended request of her son. D'Artagnan stressed that he personally put his weight behind it as a Musketeer and friend. Although he had not been completely forthcoming of the details, Anne had also not been forthright at first concerning the Duke.

The queen realized there was a reason, very personal in nature, for him to support whatever request it was of Jacques Leponte. If it were that important to the man she had known for so long, it would be equally important for Anne to give him her leverage. "By the way," the queen's voice softened, "May I congratulate you on the recent marriage of your son. Your daughter-in-law must be a delight. I would very much like to meet her."

Before Charles could give the queen reply, they heard the cry of the very person in question. "D'Artagnan! We're under attack!" Jacques Leponte alarmed.

With a shot, the legendary man drew himself from the carriage only to see a dozen or more mercenaries charging at them from the woods. "Stop the carriages!" he shouted. "Stand your ground!"

As the carriages stopped, the Musketeers jumped from their horses and drew their rapiers, ready for combat. The men were upon them before the famed man had opportunity to retake his position. He knew that would leave Jacques and his son short-handed. For the moment, the protection of the future king lay in his son and daughter-in-law's skill. He hoped they were up to the task. Putting this thought to note, he met his first opponent's blade. He would have to work his way to the front, but he would have to start from where he was.

Evidently, the advantage of the Musketeers was that they knew which carriage held the king. Had the attackers known, they would have concentrated their siege on the front carriage. Even so, each defender had two opponents apiece to overcome, but Jacques had three. Her father-in-law had noticed this almost from the start, but could do nothing to help her. His hands were full. If needed, he would fledge a running attack to guard the carriage. But, in doing so he would draw the two men he fended off with him straight to the king. He would have to stand his ground while keeping an eye on her ability to protect Louis.

Lunging, parrying, feinting, and thrusting the six elite soldiers and their captains bravely fought with sword and hand. Duval held his ground firmly despite his previously injured leg. His style was unusual, but well developed. It had grown from his determination to adapt to his handicap. With locked leg behind, he lunged with his sword and beat off his opponent's thrusts with his stick. Ramon handled a rapier and dagger with an artistic, flaring precision. Siroc methodically studied and anticipated his attacker's approach with scientific accuracy. D'Artagnan's supreme swordsmanship, physique and fist-fighting ability allowed him a more roguish demeanor. But it was Jacques' fighting that drew the legendary man's attention.

He had witnessed such skill in but few in his lifetime, but never in a woman's possession. Jacqueline was an exceptional swordfighter. Taking one man out with a rolling thrust, Leponte had evened her opponents to the other Musketeers—she now had only two to worry about. His concern for her to hold her ground against the two men relaxed as he watched between his own lunges and parries. Concurrently her comrades wearied their attackers. One by one, the mercenaries' numbers dwindled.

Louis carefully peeked out from behind his curtain. His mother's words had haunted him that he would one day find himself without his Musketeers to protect him. Although his men were there that day, the thought had occurred to him that he might have to take a stand for himself at one point. He had taken hold of his father's sword that his mother had given to him earlier that year. He hoped he would not have to put to test his swordplay practices that day, but he would be ready. Looking out, Louis was moved at what he saw. Jacques Leponte had planted himself bravely before his carriage door, giving his all for the protection of his king's life.

The sword wielding female's last opponent in tiring desperation took a dive at her in full thrust. Plowing Leponte backwards to the ground, she instinctively put her boot in his stomach and rolled him backward over her head. She had replayed that move many times with d'Artagnan, although not with such force or fury. His body slammed into the carriage with such momentum that it knocked him out.

By now, all the would-be-assassins had been subdued or had fled into the woods. Winded, d'Artagnan had come from the other side of the carriage and offered his wife a hand. She took it and he pulled her up from the ground. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking her over. He had been out of sight from her the entire time and was anxious to know she was not hurt.

She nodded her head in acknowledgment to him that she was unhurt. Then both of them joined the other Musketeers in private conversation. Jacqueline asked Captain Duval, "Do you think it was Mazarin's mole that coordinated this?"

"No, I don't," his answer came. "Mazarin wants what we want in this case. Ironically, Louis becoming king serves him just as well as us. Albeit the Cardinal's reasons are for personal gain, while ours are for the glory of God and for France."

"How does Louis being king serve Mazarin?" asked Ramon, responding with furrowed brow to his captain's seemingly paradoxical statement.

"Because," the younger d'Artagnan input while pulling the unconscious assassin clear of the carriage, "the Cardinal thinks him to be young and impressionable." The thought disgusted him how Mazarin, a man who's office stood for everything upright, did everything contrary to his vows. Even to the extent of manipulating the crown of France by way of an inexperienced king.

"Yes," agreed the captain, "and the alternatives to Louis' reign are less desirable to meet his ends." He understood far too well Mazarin's ways to suspect him as the conspirator of this attack.

"Look, Captain." Siroc observed as he picked up a discarded sword. "It's Spanish."

"Do you think this attack was planned by Spain?" Ramon asked, disturbed by its implications.

"In this case," the elder d'Artagnan contributed, "I think the evidence speaks the truth. Spain would like nothing better than to see Louis dead and a dispute over the throne of France; thus, leaving her citizens vulnerable in the southern boarders." He spat. "Those merciless people." Remembering Ramon's heritage, he glanced at the Spaniard and added, "No offense to you, Ramon."

"None taken, Señor," Ramon sympathized with the man and grieved for his own people. He knew Charles d'Artagnan had seen many years defending France against his Spanish countrymen and no doubt would see more. "I never did see eye to eye with the politics of my country. In truth, I would like nothing better than to see our countries at peace with one another."

"I believe you, Ramon. You're a good man." The seasoned soldier clasped his hand firmly on the Musketeer's shoulder. He was glad his son had met a Spaniard he could call a friend. He hoped the next generation would not know the grief that had personally been his with their neighboring country.

Duval interrupted. "Now, let's get this cleaned up and get the royal escort on their way."

"Is it safe now?" Louis opened the door from a nearby carriage and stepped out. His eyes shot about as if he were expecting to see a livid battle taking place.

"The attackers are gone, Sire," Jacques replied with a bow.

"Leponte," Louis addressed, notably moved by the battle he had seen moments before, "I saw how bravely you fought those men. You could not have fought more admirably had you truly possessed an invincible sword." His mention of the invincible sword had been intentional to remind his loyal soldier he had not forgotten his prior act of bravery. "Once again, I am in your debt. Have you still not given your reward consideration since the palace incident? I would very much like to show my appreciation for all you have done for me." The future king grasped the front of his jacket in his hands and rocked back and forth on his feet as though conducting a business transaction.

"Sire," Jacques began, "we Musketeers are a team. I could not have done it without the others."

"Yes, yes, that's what I like about you, Leponte," Louis exclaimed as he pointed a finger at him. "You're a humble man."

Jacqueline's heart pounded as she fought for the words. Here she was being offered once again a favor from the king of France. Here was her opportunity to ask. "Actually, Sire." Jacques treaded with care. "I have given it some thought…and I do have a request. But here and now is hardly the time for such a thing. We really should be on our way."

"Very well then, Leponte, I promise if you get me to Reims and back, I will set a time at court the morning after the celebration." Louis smiled and happily climbed back into his carriage. Doubling back, he gave his Musketeer a look of slight trepidation. "I do hope you don't plan to ask for half my kingdom—" he broke out in a good-humored smile "—I'd be forced to give you the Spanish boarder."

Jacques shared a light-hearted grin with the soon to be king. "I assure you, Sire, my intentions are noble and humble." With this, Louis entered the carriage and the group resumed their hastiness toward Reims.

No further events transpired along the way. By afternoon, the carriages passed the Vesele River and arrived through the ancient triumphal Roman arch that marked the historic city of Reims. Finally, they arrived at the Gothic Cathedral of Our Lady where the coronations of France's kings had taken place since Louis VIII.

Despite the attempt on Louis' life along the way, Charles had been pleased with the outcome of the day. He had spoken to Anne, who had received him well. He had confidence that she would encourage her son to accept Jacques' pending request. Additionally, Leponte had secured an appointment at court for the day after tomorrow. And unexpectedly, the legend had witnessed his daughter-in-law's skill and constitution as a Musketeer. It made him proud she was a d'Artagnan. Yes, the road to Reims had turned out fuller than he could have hoped.


	8. Chapter 8

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 8**

**A Bridge to Cross**

**Chapter Description: **D'Artagnan and Jacqueline have decisions to make.

Arriving at the Cathedral of Our Lady, Louis and Queen Anne were ushered in for a brief time of refreshment before the coronation ceremony began. Captain Duval directed his Musketeers to also take refreshment and tend to their horses. Although Cardinal Mazarin's guards were officially assigned to guard duty surrounding the cathedral, the captain wanted his men to unofficially take guard around the sanctuary as well. Duval also encouraged them to take in the sight of the historic coronation if they could. He told them they would most likely never get another opportunity at witnessing such a spectacular event. It was on this note that d'Artagnan and Jacqueline found themselves at the exquisitely carved portals on the west front of the cathedral.

"I'll stand guard out here," informed d'Artagnan as they approached the doors.

"Are you sure you want to wait out here?" she questioned. Completely surprised at his unexpected turn, she wondered at its source.

"I'm sure." He nodded, gesturing her ahead. "You go on in. I'd rather stand guard outside these…ornate walls." His voice held contempt that he could not hide. These places made him feel uncomfortable.

"Ornate, yes." Jacqueline reflected and smiled at the thought. "But I suppose the grandness of the cathedral only reminds us of our humble place before an infinite God. After all, God did not build them; man did in order to express his relationship to God."

D'Artagnan gave his wife a perplexed look. "It's not the relationship with God I resist. It's the corrupt men within these walls that I have trouble with. You of all people would understand that after the injustices you've suffered at the hands of Cardinal Mazarin." The truth was that the young man could not forgive the one that had brought so much misery upon the woman he loved. His wife's faith in the system that was responsible for her pain marveled him.

Her compassion went out to d'Artagnan. "It's true what you say about Mazarin, but there are so many other good men and women who serve within these walls, including the king who is about to be crowned." After a quiet moment, she concluded, "I'd rather choose to serve within these walls and leave it to God to decide who's not on his side." She gave him an affectionate smile and crossed the threshold into the cathedral.

Upon entering the gothic style, 13th century church, the enormity of the sight immediately caught her breath. From King Louis the VIII, France's royalty had received their crowns within these historic walls, which she could imagine echoed a little of heaven on earth. Although the interior was long and narrow, in contrast, the height of its extreme vaulted crisscrossed ceilings made up the grandness of any lack in width. The structure was truly a marvel of man, and his due credit to his omnipotent God. Aside from the hand-carved stonework, high windows allowed the stained-glass illumination on the rite in progress below. The female Musketeer noted the irony of how small the soon to be most powerful man in France appeared in his surroundings. How unimportant he looked, to the extent that when a person looked at the whole majestic sight, he seemed barely a footnote on a page. It seemed only appropriate then that even Louis should humble himself under God's eternal providential reign.

Jacqueline took place near the back door as the crown was being held over Louis' head. She had not been standing there long when she noticed her husband had quietly joined her. They locked gazes for a moment as he gave her a nod of acknowledgement. He still did not look at peace, but she was glad he had taken that first step and was content he was there. Together they listened to the words that filled the cathedral. "For it was written of King David in days of old, 'He chose David, His servant, to shepherd His people according to the integrity of his heart and guide them by the skillfulness of his hands.'" D'Artagnan quietly prayed that his wife was right about Louis' heart—for her sake and the sake of France.

At the end of the ceremony, Louis was officially presented as "Louis XIV, by the Grace of God, King of France and Navarre." Mazarin had pressed to make sure Louis was given absolute authority—no doubt for the Cardinal's own manipulative purposes. But nevertheless, France had her new king, and the Musketeers had the task of securing his safety. Consequently, there was still much to do. King Louis' entourage needed to make it safely back to Paris, and security needed to be provided for his birthday celebration on the following eve.

After a long evening of undisturbed riding, Paris was reached and the night of the coronation had been spent. Bed had never felt so good to more deserving Musketeers. Everyone slept soundly.

Early the next morning, Siroc and Ramon were up rethinking their strategy on uncovering Mazarin's mole. A move had not been made thus far, but they were sure of one thing, the man in red was up to something. It was imperative that the Musketeers find out what it was. The two soldiers would meet up with their brothers-in-arms later at the birthday celebration and update them on any progress they had made regarding the mole.

Meanwhile, it had been agreed upon that Jacqueline and d'Artagnan would have the day off together. The couple had their own set of obstacles to overcome in the days ahead. Much had to be discussed about certain upcoming events and they wanted to be alone in a quiet place where they could talk. Through their exhaustion from the day before, they spent most of their morning catching up on sleep. For their afternoon, the couple decided on a picnic by the riverside.

One advantage of their patrolling as Musketeers had been in the discovery of scenic spots. Many times the two of them had ridden by the serene riverbanks but had never actually stopped. Since yesterday had passed in riding, they wanted to go somewhere by foot that would be in close proximity to the garrison. By noon, the couple had packed their meal and made off to their choice location.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline spent a cherished afternoon together. In the peacefulness of their sanctuary, their day had passed all too quickly. Evening had at last set in, and they needed to return to the city to rejoin the others. Not wanting their time together to end, they walked slowly along the river's bank. In the coolness of the setting day, dew was beginning to rise from the serenely flowing river. Everything was so tranquil and perfect.

Jacqueline did not want to think about the hard things she knew lie in the hours and days ahead. Suddenly, she felt cold and unsure. A shiver ran up her spine at the thought. She asked d'Artagnan, "Do you really think I have a chance at being pardoned? I mean, do you really think we can outweigh Mazarin's influence on King Louis? If anything, don't you think, now that Louis is officially king, he would be even more obligated to uphold justice?" The doubt-filled woman clutched her arms together to calm her shivering. "After all, I did kill that guard…I deserve to…" She suddenly became speechless.

"Jacqueline." her husband gently lifted her chin. "Do you remember the night we talked about getting married?"

"How could I forget?" The sudden change of subject drew her attention to her husband's tender brown eyes.

"I had asked you where you'd been the night before." He cocked his head, while still gently speaking to her, "I said it looked like you'd seen a ghost. But you told me that you had just had a long talk with God."

Jacqueline nodded as a tear rolled down her cheek at the memory. "I told you how much I appreciated you being there for me, for keeping my secret and for being my friend…and that I was really going to miss being with you." She choked back the tears that now flowed freely down her face. "The next thing I knew, you were down on your knees telling me you didn't want me to leave and proposing to me."

"I knew you, Jacqueline, and I knew you wouldn't be happy in Marseille when your heart was here. I knew how much the Musketeer life meant to you. And I knew how much I loved you and wouldn't be happy without you…Once I realized that you felt the same way about me, I wasn't about to let you go without a fight." D'Artagnan put his arm around her and brushed her tears away. "Jacqueline, we talked about there being times when we would doubt our decision. Do you recall what we said we'd do when one of those times came?"

She nodded her head. "We said we would have to hang in there and keep believing."

He wrapped his arms around her securely and held her while she wept. He was afraid too. But he also knew they had made the right decision. As difficult as it might be, they would have to go forward with their plans for her acquittal. But Jacqueline had to make that decision for herself. He could not make it for her. They stood there a long time embracing one another, feeling one another's strength and love.

Before long, they found themselves at a bridge to cross over. Jacqueline needed to return to the barracks to change into Jacques' uniform for the night's birthday celebration. D'Artagnan gestured toward the bridge ahead. "We have one last bridge to cross. Are you sure you want to go through with this? You know I'll support you in whatever decision you make."

Jacqueline knew he wasn't talking about the literal bridge that stood before them. He was asking her if she wanted to go though with their plans. She knew she would never be rid of the shadow Cardinal Mazarin cast on her unless she did this. She had to try. She could not live with being a wanted woman all her life. She did not want her husband to live like that either…and what of their future family? No, she had to do this. She loved d'Artagnan for the fact that he would never force her to do anything she was not sure of. This was her last chance to change her mind. Everything would be in forward motion from that decision onward. In quiet resolve, she reached for her husband's hand, grasped it tightly, and together they walked quietly over the bridge.


	9. Chapter 9

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 9**

**Moliere and the Mole**

**Chapter Description: **During the festive celebration, trouble brews.

On the evening after Louis' birthday, jubilation ran high in the city of Paris. France had crowned her king and tonight there would be much celebration. Palace galas were small, albeit pompous events in comparison to an entire town at play. This evening, it was the city's people who prepared to throw their king a party. In the center of town, lay the _Place des Vosges_, a large residential square designed for aristocracy. Lined by brick and stone building fronts was a green where the stage had been set up. A seating section for royalty and the wealthy had been constructed, more or less for the safety from the throngs, but open seating and standing room was plentiful for the rest of the populace.

Concurrently, several days had passed, and Captain Duval's men had not caught their mole. Guards were on high alert, but without knowing what factitiousness Mazarin was up to, the Musketeers did not know where to place their manpower.

Louis had been escorted to the royal celebration where an evening of food and entertainment followed for him and his dignitary guests. Siroc and Ramon had been assigned to keep watch for any unruly activity near the new king. It was in that mode that the two Musketeers found themselves standing beside the stage during the play.

"This town is a mad-house with all these men walking around in Musketeer uniforms," Siroc noted. His gaze had been continually shifting in observation of the people on the streets.

As if to confirm his concern, a man came up to them, thinking they were part of the act. "Please," the man instructed, "all Musketeer actors need to go over to the other side of the stage to await their cue."

"You see what I mean?" Siroc looked at Ramon. Then turning to the man, the blond-haired soldier told him, "We aren't actors. We're the real thing—Musketeers." He placed his hand on the hilt of his rapier for emphasis.

Noticing that the man appeared to be a director of some sort, Ramon was unable to help himself. The poet's artistic nature kicked in. With raised finger to warrant the man's attention, he stuttered for the words, "I am not an actor, Monsieur, but I do compose rhapsodies." This sparked a conversation between the rhapsodizing Musketeer and the other man.

"You don't say?" inquired the man, brightened by the news. "I myself am an aspiring writer and was fortunate enough to be in town for this production. A Musketeer play was wanted for the king on such short notice. And there I was, in the right place at the right time. I hope the king likes it very much so I may have a future writing plays for him."

"Let me introduce myself." The Spaniard extended his hand with drama to the aspiring writer. "My name is Ramon Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz. But my friends just call me Ramon."

"I am Jean Baptiste Poquelin. But my friends call me Moliere." The man smiled, extending his hand to receive the Spaniard's. "I am pleased to meet you, Ramon."

"A playwright?" The Spanish composer's interest deepened along with his facial expressions. "Say, I wonder if you would have time to hear something I was inspired with today?" Moliere opened his mouth to say something, but the rhapsodizing man's look became distant as he began his dramatic recital.

"A brave new king who is young, but is true,

Was crowned in France and tonight makes debut,

Before his people who party and cheer,

All the while protected by his loyal Musketeers."

Upon finishing his rhapsody he turned back to the playwright, smiling and eager for review. "I know it's a little short right now, but it's a work in progress. What do you think?"

"Not bad." The man named Moliere nodded with thought. "Your last line was…"

But the rhapsodizing man never got a chance to learn what Moliere thought of his last line, because his comrade interrupted, "Do you smell that?" His observing partner winced. While Ramon and the aspiring playwright had been conversing, the scientist had recognized a faint, but familiar aroma.

"Smell what?" Ramon lifted his arm to see if he had been perspiring. The playwright, too, gave the poet a strange look and sniffed the air to see what this sensitive-nosed Musketeer could have been talking about.

"I'd recognize that smell anywhere," Siroc informed, with aversion. "Wait a minute." The scientist stopped in realization. "It's coming from that Musketeer actor that just walked by. There's only one place he could have picked up that scent. That man's been in my lab! Quick, we have to follow him." Being one step ahead of his comrade, as usual, he began to walk off, leaving a befuddled companion behind.

Ramon grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "Why do you think that actor went into your lab?" he queried, unable to follow his friend's quick mind. The Spaniard's sense of smell was not as attuned as his scientist friend, nor was he as observant.

"Because," answered the deductive man, "What does our ferret do when he's startled?" Siroc's eyes brightened as they usually did when he was on to something and patiently awaited others' minds to catch up.

"Ah!" Ramon finally exclaimed in understanding. He looked at the Musketeer actor nearby and sniffed again, wrinkling his nose as the familiarity of the pungent odor registered.

Siroc grinned at his repulsed comrade and continued, "I think we've found Mazarin's mole. I recognize him from the night the ferret went into that new recruit's room. He was the man sleeping in that bed." His observation returned to following the suspect's moves.

"Ay, mi amigo! Are you trying to tell me that animal actually did find the right guy's room?" Ramon connected the thought and verbally traced its path. "So the cheese did not throw the animal off the trail, it threw us off the trail. Is that what you're saying? How about that, Siroc, you are a genius." The tall man pleasantly shook his head and patted his friend on the shoulder. He rambled on, caught up in the festive mood about him. "You know, you shouldn't doubt yourself so much. We did find the right man after all. And you gave me so much trouble about my… "

"Ramon!" the scientist interrupted, finally hearing enough. "Be quiet." He was too busy observing their man and deciding what to do; he needed to focus. Siroc noticed that Captain Duval and his friend's father were standing near the other side of the stage. "Come on, Ramon. We're going to need help with this. I'll double back to the garrison to get d'Artagnan and Jacques to help me find out what he was doing in my lab." Pointing toward their superiors, the blond-haired soldier instructed, "You get the captain and 'the' d'Artagnan, and follow that mole."

"Comprender!" the tall Spaniard acknowledged, suddenly in a soldier's mode again. He turned back to the baffled looking playwright, who had been trying to make sense of their conversation, and excused himself. "Adios, Moliere, perhaps we will meet some other time under more favorable circumstances."

Ramon made his way around the stage toward the captain and d'Artagnan. He watched the play conclude with a round of dueling men, followed by the famous four Musketeers brazenly lifting their swords in recital of their motto—"All for one and one for all!"

"Whew!" Taking in the sight, the poet shook his head. "I'm glad d'Artagnan isn't here to see this stuff." He knew his friend had heard his fill of this overused saying in his life. While people heard this ditty and wooed over the larger-than-life man, his comrade only felt its superfluous shadow it cast that he could never live up to.

Charles d'Artagnan seemed confounded at what he had seen. The playwright had put together an ensemble called, _Le Comédie Musketeers_. In it he portrayed the famous four Musketeers of yesterday's court in a comical intrigue of action and romance. D'Artagnan was the only original namesake to be fortunate enough to witness the portrayal of him and his beloved former companions.

"I must say, I never believed I'd live long enough to see history get our characters so wrong," d'Artagnan reflected aloud. "But I must admit. I rather fancy the feather in Aramis' hat. Although I'd think he'd die to see it. He so detested gaudiness. It's a shame he couldn't be here to see it. But then, oh, do they ever have Porthos down right! Quite the life of the party he was. And then there's Athos! Poor man, indeed. He never could bring himself to trust another woman. But what do you say, Duval, of that man who is supposed to be me? This is scandalous!" The legend concluded, looking at his friend in bewilderment.

"Well, it's all in fun, you know? This is a celebration; lighten up, my friend!" Duval laughed. "You know, d'Artagnan, I've heard a saying that the pen is mightier than the sword."

"Hmm, yes," his friend returned. "I'll have to keep that in mind when I meet up with this playwright in the alley afterward." He threw a quick agitated look at Duval then joined his friend in light-hearted laughter. Truth in it or not, the play had been enjoyed by the king and his subjects. On that matter alone, even the great d'Artagnan was willing to suffer a little humiliation all in good sport.

Having made his way around the stage, Ramon interrupted his superior's conversation "Captain! D'Artagnan!" he exclaimed with urgency. And the soldier proceeded to relay to them the disturbing information on mole. He told them what Siroc and he had discovered just minutes before as well as what they had found out in the hallway of the garrison the night d'Artagnan's father had arrived.

Captain Duval was not happy that they had kept information from him but was anxious to follow the mole to find out where he was going. Seeing the suspect meet up with several men dressed in his own men's uniforms, the captain noted that he did not recognize them. "They must be Mazarin's men, and the Cardinal must have something planned for tonight," he deducted.

Duval, d'Artagnan and Ramon followed the fraudulently clad men into an alley. They could hear them discussing something about numerous team assignments posted to raid shops throughout the city. Most alarmingly, the bona fide king's soldiers overheard the ringleader stress they were to intentionally leave witnesses to spread rumors of Musketeer foul play.

D'Artagnan quietly distressed, "If that's what they're planning, it would strike a severe blow to the people's trust in the Musketeers." Turning to Duval he counseled, "We're going to need more help than the three of us. We're going to have to alert all our men to patrol for suspicious activity. Blast, if this doesn't turn into a witch hunt! We'll have to tell them to cast suspect, even on those dressed in their own uniforms." The former captain had a worried look on his face. "This reeks of Mazarin."

"D'Artagnan—" decided the captain "—go secure the barracks from men who may be impersonating my soldiers there. Send your son, Jacqueline and Siroc to get the word out to the other men. Have them pair up and patrol the streets. Tell them to arrest any suspicious looking Musketeer they believe is not one of us. And tell them to ask questions later. Godspeed, my friend!" Duval's last words faded in the legend's ears as he took off into the night.

"Ramon," Duval redirected their attention, "let's see what these scoundrels are up to." The Spaniard nodded his head in agreement and they secretively trailed the mole masquerading as a Musketeer and his companions.

Captain Duval and Ramon followed the men for some time before the group stopped near an upscale haberdashery shop. Their leader motioned for the gang to hide in the shadows upon spotting an approaching man. Duval waited patiently to see what the men would do to this shopkeeper returning from the celebration. Fumbling for his key, the owner walked up to his door, all the while mumbling the famous Musketeer line from the play. "All for one…aha, here's the key…One for all." But just as the shopkeeper began to unlock his door, the men dressed as the king's royal soldiers jumped him.

One man gripped the terrified shopkeeper and held his hand over his mouth to keep him from yelling for help, while the others prepared to raid the shop. The captain had seen enough to warrant the arrest of these thugs. Before the marauders could begin their pillaging, the two genuine king's men stepped out from the adjoining street holding cocked pistols on the rebels. "Release that man," Duval bellowed. "Stand away from that shop," he motioned with his pistol. The attacker let the man go from his grip. A bewildered looking shopkeeper turned to see a Musketeer holding a gun on what appeared to be one of his own men.

Duval ordered the marauders, "Take those Musketeer jackets and weapons off and place them on the ground. A man has to earn those to wear them. You don't fool me. You're no Musketeers." Slowly the men stripped down to their shirts and pants. "Boots too!" commanded Duval.

Captain Duval spoke to the shopkeeper, "Monsieur, if you would be so kind as to hold these uniforms until I can send someone to retrieve them, I would be much obliged." The man nodded, befuddled as to what he had just witnessed.

"Now, move it!" the captain ordered the bootless men. The two Musketeers walked the half dressed men down the street. Duval and Ramon would take them to where they would be held for questioning. It was not likely any of these men would be willing to lead them back to Cardinal Mazarin. In doing so, they would no doubt suffer at His Eminence's hands. But at least they had rid themselves from this spy in their garrison. They had also managed to uncover Mazarin's hideous plot to undermine the Royal Musketeer's reputation. The worried leader only hoped his men would be able to head off any other mischief before damage could be done.


	10. Chapter 10

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 10**

**When Things Go Wrong**

**Chapter Description:** Anguish. And what makes a Musketeer legendary.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline passed by several fellow soldiers when they entered Jacques Leponte's quarters. That night there seemed to be Musketeers everywhere. Since the two of them had recently been away, they still had not made themselves familiar with all the new recruits Captain Duval had taken on. Still, the sight had been welcoming to them to see that the captain had not left the garrison unguarded.

With all the security present, d'Artagnan felt it had been safe to leave Jacqueline to rejoin his comrades at the celebration. If the mole had planned to make a move, it would be that night. Siroc and Ramon would need his help. He told her to meet up with them at the play after getting changed into her Jacques uniform. He kissed her and left.

When the door closed behind d'Artagnan, Jacqueline went over to remove her uniform from the armoire. She had to admit, it would be good to again be recognized as a Musketeer by others than those who knew her true identity. But it was more than just a uniform to her. She wore the uniform proudly, and took its service to the throne seriously. She stooped first to the bottom drawer where she kept her bindings. Those were the only part of her uniform she disliked. But the discomfort in wearing them was a small sacrifice she was willing to concede to.

Before Jacqueline had opened the drawer, the door to her room reopened. "D'Artagnan?" she wondered aloud as she turned to see why he had returned.

But her husband was not who she saw. Her shocked eyes met three masked Musketeers darting across the room to grab her. She wanted to call for help and grab her rapier, but it all happened so fast. They had her gagged and bound before she had time to react. This abduction had been a well planned scenario. Someone on the inside had seen d'Artagnan and Jacqueline enter the room, and d'Artagnan leave her alone. The mole! The realization hit her like ice water and sent chills through her body. These men were no comrades of hers, despite their attire. There was no doubt in Jacqueline's mind, these men were Mazarin's.

She was stunned by the sudden change in events. The scene about her became surreal. As they pulled her briskly to the door, one of them lowered a sack over her head, shutting off her sight of the garrison around her. Struggling did her no benefit as they dragged her uncooperative form down the hallways that had just moments before felt so safe. Why was no one hearing her struggling? Had all the guards they had seen been decoys? The men that had grabbed her, were they the very ones d'Artagnan and Jacqueline had just greeted on the way into the garrison? The thought nauseated her.

Brusquely turning her around the corners and out to the stone courtyard, they prodded her. She tripped and fell, dashing her face on the stony surface. Even through the sack on her head, she felt the shock of the fall absorb into her jaw. Stinging pain shot up through her temples as the warm trickle of blood ran down her neck and clung to her hooded head. They jerked her to her feet to drag her off the premises and down the dirt path. Their leather bindings cut deeply into her wrists as she struggled against the imposters to escape. In the darkness, she had lost all sense of balance. She stumbled again and again, as they shoved her back and forth between them.

Taunting her, they asked, "Which beloved Musketeer is this now who is pushing you?" They knew she had seen their identically portraying uniforms at her capture.

'Where were the Musketeers?' she frantically thought. The further away they got from the town, the more she panicked. They shoved and pushed her. She lost her balance again and plunged into a thick pile of leaves. Several protruding sticks pushed deeply into her side, nearly knocking the wind from her lungs.

One of the men grabbed her bound hands, laughing, and yanked her back to her feet. "Watch where you're going," he brayed. They continued to push her along to where a cart awaited.

Jacqueline gasped as she suddenly felt them uproot her from her feet and toss her into the back of a wagon. Her shoulder hit squarely on the hard wooden surface, shooting a jolt of pain to her left side. This jarred a sharp memory of another wound recently inflicted by one of the Cardinal's men. Shoving her into the center, her feet were bound and the cart was led away into the coldness of night.

Jacqueline did not even want to know where they were taking her. She already determined that wherever they were headed, she quite possibly would never see the break of day again. She blocked the thought out of any future. There was only now, and now had no offer of escape. Oh, where were her beloved Musketeers? She knew even they could not offer her help now. "Dear God," she prayed silently, "only your angels could stand guard for me now." And the cart jolted down the darkened path.

Reaching her unknown destination, Jacqueline could hear her capturers giving and receiving orders as to where to take her. Several of them unbound her feet and dropped her to the ground. All the while, shoving and disheveling her, they led her up a wooded embankment. A sharp jab to her side sent her flailing into a thicket of thorns. The falling woman gasped as the jeering pain of a thousand pins pricked her flesh.

"You grab her out of there," one of the men ordered to someone.

Pricked in pain, she felt a hand tug her dress from behind and pull her to her feet. Blood mingled tears burned her face and neck. She had never felt so trodden and forsaken. Spent and unable to go any further of her own will, she collapsed to her knees.

"Take her and carry her," yelled a voice. She felt her body being lifted.

Hearing several approaching voices, Jacqueline could tell they were entering a stone encasement below ground. 'The dungeons,' she thought. Downward they carried her until she heard the clanging of metal and creaking of heavy iron hinges.

"Chain her in there," someone barked.

The barely conscious woman felt her body slam against the solid stone once again shooting pain through her already numb body. Her hands and feet were clasped into the hard iron chains. She hung there and wondered how much a person could bear before passing out? She knew she would have her answer soon.

Siroc expediently made his way back to the garrison from the celebration. He knew time was of essence with the seriousness of the matter they were facing. It was his self-assigned duty to alert his comrades of his recent discovery and find out what that mole had been doing in his lab. On his way, he ran into one of the very Musketeers he sought.

Surprised to see his friend heading in the opposite direction from the festivities, d'Artagnan stopped him and asked, "Where are you going?"

His face spoke of the seriousness of the situation as he grabbed the Frenchman firmly by the arms. "Am I glad to see you. I was on my way back to the garrison to get you and Jacques. Ramon and I discovered that the mole was in my lab recently…long story." He let go of his friend and waved the rest of it off before continuing, "But right now we need to get back to the garrison and find out what he was looking at in there." He nudged d'Artagnan to walk with him as they discussed the implications.

This news caught the d'Artagnan off guard. He had just left Jacqueline in the garrison he thought was well protected. But now, he felt he had made a mistake to think so. Growing in concern, the married man noticed all the men in Musketeer uniforms coming from the celebration. Finally, he asked the question that had been bothering him all evening long, "Siroc, how many new recruits did the captain take on?"

When Siroc told his friend about the play, d'Artagnan quickly put the pieces together. "I'm sure Mazarin knew about this Musketeer play. I wouldn't be surprised if he's got his men dressed up in our uniforms everywhere," he said with alarm. Jacqueline's husband got a feeling in his gut that something had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. "Hurry, Siroc, we have to get back to the garrison! Quick!" He grabbed his friend by the arm and ran.

D'Artagnan's fears for the worst had been confirmed. Something had gone drastically wrong. In returning to the barracks, they discovered Jacqueline's door ajar. "She hadn't even had time to change," the stunned husband said in a stupor. The realization that she had been taken immediately after he had left sickened him. Anger and guilt of his carelessness overcame him.

Although Siroc and he immediately raced outside in pursuit of the abductors, it was a futile attempt. The woman he had vowed to love and protect was out of their reach by now. Consequently, when their frantic search for her turned up empty handed, they found their flight had led them to the stone walls surrounding the castle. He glared at the cold stone. D'Artagnan's heart confirmed that she was in there. He knew that wall separated him from Jacqueline in her worst hour, and the realization crushed him worse than the weight of the world.

D'Artagnan was numb with the veritable truth that Jacqueline was in danger and that he could not offer help. Adrenaline rushed through his body, but he had no outlet for it. He was a man ready for battle, weapon drawn, with no opponent in sight. There was no set battle ground; there was no one in sight to lash out at. Turning to Siroc he resolved in his undulating anger, "I know this is Mazarin's doing. I'm going in there to put an end to this."

The irate soldier turned to leave, but his friend grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. "Come on, d'Artagnan, don't lose it on me."

But the fury bent man wasn't listening to his comrade's reasoning. He recoiled on Siroc and landed his pent up rage square on the inventor's jaw.

The Musketeer's attempt to pull his friend back to his senses only landed him flat on his back. Again, the clenched fist, revengeful man stomped off. But this brother-in-arms was not done with his unthinking comrade. Wiping the trickle of blood that flowed from the corner of his mouth, Siroc got up and ran after d'Artagnan. Catching up, he sharply reproved, "Come on, think level headed. If you go storming into that castle after Mazarin, you're only going to make the whole mess worse. That's not going to help Jacqueline."

D'Artagnan stopped at the mention of Jacqueline's name. Still with his back toward his pursuer, he unclenched his fists and made a new resolution. "Then Mazarin can wait, but Jacqueline needs me now." Inhaling deeply to hold back his wavering emotions, he pressed on in justifying his actions, "She may not have time for us to sit around and think of something! I'm going into that dungeon after her, Siroc. You can't stop me." He began to move forward again, but stopped at the sound of Siroc's sharp retort.

"Think about it, d'Artagnan. Suppose you do get into that dungeon. You'd probably end up killing someone. Both of you would end up in that cell together. And Mazarin would have both of you hung for murder. Is that what you want?" Siroc was frantically trying to appeal to his friend's better judgment to abort his madness.

A foundering d'Artagnan looked over his shoulder toward his fellow Musketeer. "Jacqueline went after her brother, Gerard. The least I can do is the same for her." The heart-wrenched man began to loose the battle with his raw emotions.

Seeing his friend's crumbling spirits, Siroc moved in closer and softened his appeal. "Yes, but as I recall, you kept her from acting rashly. Come on, d'Artagnan, let's think this out. I know it's hard to think straight when it's someone you care about so much."

Shaking his head, d'Artagnan spat at the wrongness of the whole situation. "Killing Mazarin is the only thing that's going to put an end to his evils."

"Would it?" challenged Siroc. "Tell me, who would take Mazarin's place? Evil men, like Mazarin will always be there. You can't kill them all, d'Artagnan." In a rare moment, seeing his friend's pain moved the private man to allude to a part of his life he had never spoken of before. "Between you and me, I personally know something about that." The pain was obvious in the memory glowing in his eyes. He looked away briefly, as if reliving an unpleasant recollection from his past. "We just have to make sure that we don't compromise and become like them. If you're honest with yourself, you know that if you marched up there, you'd most likely do something you'd regret. You'd have to live with that, d'Artagnan, for the rest of your life." Changing the subject back to the one at hand, the reasoning man landed his point home to the one he had come to think of as a brother. "Don't you think Jacqueline knows something about living with the consequences of acting out of anger?"

The avenger's eyes closed for a moment. Siroc's last comment had pricked a sore spot in the aching man's conscience. Turning to his friend, their gazes met in a moment of understanding. D'Artagnan's thoughts wandered to the time before he knew of Jacqueline's true identity. He had stopped her from rashly rushing in to save her brother without first coming up with a plan. He had been her rational voice then, when her judgment had been clouded. This man who had become her confidant, friend and husband often thought of how different it would have been had he not been there for her. He knew the man he had just spent his anger on was now doing the same for him. With a deep sigh, the wounded man surrendered and redirected himself toward the barracks. He was willing to give up his single-handed assault on the palace for now, but he was not in the mood to hear any more from Siroc.

Shortly thereafter, D'Artagnan's father arrived at the garrison. As he entered the courtyard, he found Siroc returning from the opposite direction. Before the older Musketeer could tell the young soldier of the captain's urgent request, the anguished blond-haired man quickly informed the elder d'Artagnan, "Sir, Jacqueline's been abducted."

"What?" the legendary man drew back reflexively, mouth agape. He clearly had not anticipated this.

Between his shaken voice and swollen lip from Siroc's recent confrontation with the legend's son, he tried to convey what had happened. "She…came back to the barracks to change into her uniform and was supposed to meet us at the celebration. But she never showed up. When we got back here, we discovered she hadn't even changed her dress. I don't think they knew Jacqueline was Jacques. It was Jacqueline they wanted…It looked like there had been a struggle in her room. Then your son and I went after her, but it was too late…She had been gone for some time, before we discovered she was missing."

Although Siroc was obviously upset, the experienced Musketeer knew he was talking to a man of reason. D'Artagnan tried to joggle his memory. "What else can you tell me about the clues you've found?

"I can only say that this was a professionally planned job. Someone thought this through enough to have covered their tracks. It was perfectly timed. So perfectly timed that Jacques…I mean Jacqueline didn't have time to defend herself. These men knew what they were doing."

"Mazarin!" d'Artagnan said under his breath as he looked away. As the older Musketeer's mind began to muster the meaning behind Jacqueline's disappearance, he suddenly recalled why he had returned to the garrison. Looking back to the inventor, he informed him of the discovery the captain, Ramon and he had made in following the mole. He told Siroc he would see to his son and ordered the young soldier to immediately inform as many trustworthy comrades he knew to patrol the streets. Before his boy's friend took off, the father asked asked, "Where is my son?"

"He's inside," was Siroc's concerned reply.

Upon entering the barracks, d'Artagnan could hear his son's torment. Finding his way to its source he found the young distraught man sitting on Jacques' bed with his face lowered in his hands. The son looked up when his father entered. His eyes were tear-stained. "Jacqueline's gone; Mazarin's taken her."

Unprepared for what he saw, suddenly the legend found himself at a loss for words. Men like Charles d'Artagnan spend their entire lives avoiding situations like these. Legendary men were men of action, not men who stood around watching loved ones in agony. It was more than he could bear. Unable to offer a solution that was not ludicrously rash and unable to stand by in his son's anguish, the helpless father left the room.

Athos had once reproved Charles for the same behavior his son was displaying now. "Weeping," his Musketeer brother had said, "was for women; men take revenge." But what revenge could he take? D'Artagnan had no doubt that Mazarin was behind Jacqueline's abduction, but a man did not just storm into the castle and take retribution on a man of his position. What revenge indeed could be taken?

His thoughts turned toward Jacqueline. He wrestled with her being not only his daughter by marriage, but a loyal Musketeer. He had seen it himself. He had fought side by side with her in armed conflict. After all, "All for one and one for all" had been his motto. He believed in it. If only on that ground alone, he would have seen to it that all could be done for her. But there was more that pulled at his soul. It was different when Athos had been talking about his own suffering. This was his son's personal hell and he could not spare him from it.

He wandered silently to the quiet stables and spoke aloud to no one in particular, "Why am I always unable to be there in time of need? Why do I always run when a loved one is suffering—first from my wife, and now from my son? I thought I could do things differently this time with my son, but I couldn't even hold him in his agony." He shamed Athos and broke down and cried.

Alone in the stables, he looked toward heaven and desperately prayed, "God in heaven, I know I am not worthy to ask anything of you. You know all too well the kind of man I am. My ways have not always been an example of a man to do your name credit. But I plead to you as a father for his son. Surely you know about that! Did you not have a son who walked the path to the cross? Take this cup from my son, I ask. Give me something I can do for him. Please, almighty God, hear me."

For some time, d'Artagnan sobbed in solitude before he voiced a final thought, "I would be willing to trade my honor before the crown of France for this." With those words it came to him. He lifted his head and realized a path he had not considered before. "There may be just one way that lay in my ability to offer protection to Jacqueline and take my son's pain." He knew if Mazarin had Jacqueline that she was in the palace dungeons. And in that case, he knew precisely where he had to go. He had to act quickly, but first he had to see his son.

Re-entering the room where his son sat, he went over to him and choked out his words. "Son," he cried, "A father would do anything to save his son from facing this." The younger d'Artagnan's reaction took him off-guard. He felt his son's frantic grasp around him in a hug. He too returned his son's grasp with equal intensity. Quickly stepping back, he clasped his son's shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Son," he said resolutely, "I must go somewhere now where you cannot go, but as your father, I promise you I am going to do all in my power to bring Jacqueline back. You need to wait and trust me."

Firmly, the younger d'Artagnan returned his father's gaze. With tears freely flowing down his cheeks, he strained the words, "I trust you."

On his way out the door, his father turned to raise a gloved finger, and instructed, "Meet me at the palace tomorrow morning. Bring Captain Duval and the others. We're going to keep that appointment of Jacques' with the king." With this, he turned and walked out, disappearing into the darkness. When things go wrong, a true Musketeer would do the unasked for—go the distance no other would dare go. Charles D'Artagnan had lived by that creed. Although he knew that this deed would rightly go unsung in legends, he was prepared to make what would be perhaps his last sally of his career.


	11. Chapter 11

**Swordplay**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 11**

**Throne Room**

Unfettered pony on alar flight

Favored maiden in the night

Wispy forests passing blight

Darkened boughs in endless sight

Riding bidden journey's plight

Destined to the morning's light

Jacqueline opened her eyes to the realization that she stood chained to the damp dungeon wall. Her now uncloaked head allowed her sight, confirming her assumption of where she had been taken the night before. She had been captured and enchambered somewhere in a vast labyrinth of caverns beneath the castle. While somewhere in the remote bed chambers above royalty would begin another day, the stark reality sunk in that she awoke for the last time. Mazarin would see her hung today. She had arrived at the end of her life and service to her country. Her service to her king, somewhere up there above her dark cell, was over.

Her thoughts transversed the upper chambers and continued to rise heavenward. Now there was only one king left she would answer to. She desperately felt alone before her maker's throne. Ironically, contrary to the king and country she had lived her life for, it was now the King of kings she stood in service to in the end. Surrendering her thoughts in a whisper, she prayed, "Let my service be pleasing to you, my King. All I ask is that you have mercy on France, her king and the ones I love." No sooner had she spoken these words than the soft glowing morning sun shone in on her. It warmed her chilled body. At that moment, she was sure she had felt the smile of God touch her face. Jacqueline Roget d'Artagnan smiled back.

In the upper rooms of the palace, the king sat on his balcony outside his royal chambers. Captain Duval knocked softly on his door and entered. "Sire," Duval announced. "I am here on behalf of your mother who wishes to have breakfast with you before escorting you to the throne room."

"Duval." Louis' gaze had not moved from the growing light coming over the horizon. "Have you ever watched a sunrise?"

"Sire?" Duval questioned. Then perceiving his king in distant thought, he responded in like, "Ah, yes, I have seen many. Today's is among the most splendid, I see."

"I've noticed, Duval," Louis continued his reflection, "that the sun does not rise first on the king. It rises for all of France." Turning to his Musketeer captain, Louis' expression became poignant. "France's king should not be the only one privileged to the good things of God—like justice, mercy and goodness. These things, like the goodness of the rising sun are for all France. Duval, as France's king, it is my job before God to see to that."

It had been a difficult night of keeping ahead of Mazarin's Musketeers and Louis' words warmed the captain. "Sire," Duval genuinely offered, "you are noble, my king, and I pray God give you wisdom to carry out your calling." After a slight pause he added, "But there are many powerful men in France, who although not as powerful as you, Sire, do not share those thoughts of good will for all. Even within these walls there are those who no doubt hold evil intents towards loyal citizens." The aging man's words were thick with thoughts of Mazarin's injustices. Last night, the Cardinal had failed to discredit the good Musketeer's name, but he had succeeded in yet another injustice toward Jacqueline Roget.

"Then that will be the challenge God has set before me." Louis thought back to a resolve he had recently made. He rose to his feet and voiced, "I shall have to keep a closer eye on them. Come, Duval, my friend, let us rise with the sun to the occasion."

From another palace room, Anne let a tired Charles out into the still quiet hallway. They had spent a long night in intense conversation, and as a result, there was something of extreme gravity the queen had yet to discuss with her son—King Louis. D'Artagnan had come to her late the evening before with news the former regent dreaded, but knew was true in her heart.

For some time the loyal soldier had borne certain secrets that had lain unspoken of before others. The trouble was, that the truth ran deeper than anyone had suspected. D'Artagnan had previously kept details from the queen on the road to Reims because of an oath of secrecy that had held his tongue from revealing more any sooner. Yet, now that Jacqueline's circumstances were desperate, he was compelled to risk Anne's anger at laying the details before her. He began with a heaviness of heart, bearing his lengthy disclosure that led them clear into the dawn. In the end, although Anne was greatly disturbed to hear his words, she was much too numbed with the truth of them to be angry with the man who delivered them.

The queen had already spoken with Louis once; yet, it was only in brief passing and only to encourage Louis in Jacques favor. With this new revelation, Anne was praying he would exhibit mercy, more than justice, in regard to Leponte's request. When the queen consented to speak with Louis on the full weight of the matter, d'Artagnan offered to accompany her. But she insisted she would see to it herself. As the former regent watched the man who had borne so many of her past grievances leave, she retreated into her chamber to ready herself to bear this one alone.

Shortly thereafter, Anne and her son, the king, met privately over breakfast. Neither of them touched their food. There were things on their minds other than the delicacies set before them—troubling things. Anne began their conversation, "Louis." She looked at her son, hesitating to go on. "Jacques Leponte will not be coming to court today as originally planned."

"What do you mean, Mother?" Louis queried. "If Jacques is not coming to make his personal request owed to him by the king, there's no need for the court."

Discreetly his mother continued, "Jacques will not be there, but instead Charles d'Artagnan will be carrying a personally signed request from Leponte. In his own handwriting, Jacques Leponte has requested the release and pardon of a certain woman named Jacqueline Roget."

"Jacqueline Roget?" Louis sat there astonished at what his mother had just said. "Where is Jacques and why won't he be delivering his request in person?" Louis' questions seemed to flow faster than he was willing to await their answers. "Who is this woman he wants pardoned? And how did you come to know of all this?"

Not knowing where to begin, Anne looked around to make sure they were in complete privacy and said, "Louis, when you have lived long enough, you will discover we all bear…secrets." Her voice trailed off.

Louis placed his napkin on his tray. "Mother, you are confusing me. First you say Jacques won't be here. Then you say the legendary d'Artagnan bears Leponte's request for the pardon of some woman. Now you completely lose me by alluding that there are secrets you bear. You are frightening me. Was there something in that coffee of yours this morning?" Rising from the table, he demanded, "I want to know what this is all about!"

In this rare moment, Anne's troubled countenance did her beauty no credit. She wore the appearance of a woman with the weight of the past, present and future in her trust. "Sit down, Louis." She fidgeted. "It's about time I told you some things that you should know."

An hour later, the newly crowned king of France and his court entered the throne room. "Attention!" a sentry called loudly, "King Louis XIV is presented." Charles d'Artagnan was there as promised. His son, Captain Duval, Siroc, and Ramon entered the room behind the king and took place alongside the adjoining walls to the throne.

"Your Majesty." Mazarin approached the king as he entered the room, and for the king's ears only, he spoke, "Before proceeding to the planned hearing, I have a matter of utmost importance to bring before you."

Unsure of what Mazarin had planned, the young ruler approached the throne. "Mazarin?" Louis awaited the Cardinal's meaning for his interjection.

Mazarin nodded for his guards and called, "Bring in the prisoner." A beautiful, but dejected looking woman was roughly brought into the throne room. Her appearance was proof of her recent treatment. Her hair was unkempt and her dress was ragged. She was covered from head to foot by the deeds of the night before. The sight brought a measure of gasps from those standing around the room. D'Artagnan was all but held back from rushing to her side by Ramon and Siroc's tightened grips. The Musketeers and the queen were obviously shaken. As the guards approached the foot of the throne with the prisoner, they made her kneel before King Louis XIV.

Louis slowly stood to his feet with a look of stun. "What is the meaning of this?" he called for an explanation, trembling in his voice. Then with a shift toward anger he looked at his premier. "I demand to know, Mazarin!"

"Your Majesty," began the Cardinal, "this woman was arrested snooping around the Musketeer's garrison last night during your birthday celebration." Mazarin assumed the boy's anger stemmed from his distaste in the situation's unpleasantness. Ignoring the measure, His Eminence withdrew a scrolled picture of Jacqueline Roget and continued. "She is wanted for the murder of one of my captains." He coolly looked around the room to make sure everyone present had registered his declaration. Then returning his emotionless gaze to the king, he stated, "If you would sentence her, I will quickly have her removed from your presence and executed."

"Executed?" spurned Louis, still showing his piqued irritation. "This is the Roget woman, is it not?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," cautiously answered Mazarin, surprised by Louis' sustained reaction being coupled by apparent knowledge on this inconsequential woman.

"Mazarin," Louis gave command. "Bring me the order for the arrest of this one, Jacqueline Roget." The Cardinal brought the official order giving him the right to hold this woman under arrest over to the young king. The self-important man scoffed at the trodden woman as he passed by her in heightened view.

"Thank you, Mazarin," Louis acknowledged, without being able to look the man in the eyes. "That will be all." The perpetrator clad in red stepped back.

Holding the arrest order at his side, Louis looked at the menagerie before him and stepped in for a closer look at the disheveled woman. Slowly he stooped down, placed his hand under her chin and lifted her eyes to his in expectation. The Cardinal had supposed the boy had not had many dealings with criminals before. He looked on with expectation as the boy examined this murderess. But others asked themselves if there was something else their king had seen in that face as he studied her. Had he recognized the loyal face of one of his beloved Musketeers, Jacques Leponte? Or had he simply seen a sheep being sent to the slaughter by Mazarin? There were many thoughts in the room as to what he had seen, and as to why he did what he did next. "Guards," he called, "release this woman!" Immediately two men fell in to unlatch her shackles and stood back. Jacqueline's eyes met the king's once again and held them in question as to why he had released her.

From her gaze, Louis lifted his head and looked the room over to rest upon the legend's son. Louis read the anguish in his face. "D'Artagnan," Louis spoke with compassion. "Come help this woman." At this, the two Musketeers on either side of the distressed husband released their hold on his arms for the first time since Jacqueline had entered the room. They had been the only thing holding him back from racing over to her any sooner than that moment. The suddenly free to act young man quickly covered the distance that had been too long between them and encased her trembling form in his tender strength.

Then holding the order up for all in the room to see, he spoke loudly and scanned the room with his voice, "I, King Louis XIV, do hereby release from arrest this woman, Jacqueline Roget—" and with a slight pause he glanced toward the husband and his wife and added for their ears alone, "—d'Artagnan." With those words Louis rent the arrest order in two.

Surprised murmurs were heard throughout the room. Mazarin looked shocked, but held his ground as a growing look of malcontent filled his stance. Raising his voice to be heard over the noise, Louis spoke again with mingled emotion. "D'Artagnan," and indicated the elder of the namesakes by an outstretched hand in his direction. "In your possession, I believe you have a hand-written signed request by one, Jacques Leponte, for the acquittal of this woman."

"Yes, I do, Sire," the legendary Musketeer stated and brought the letter forward.

Louis gave his subject a strained look as he received the letter. D'Artagnan bowed his head in silent acknowledgment and stepped to the back of the room. His King's countenance had made it clear that his mother had spoken to him as he requested. His deed as father and Musketeer was done, and its consequence awaited him. The young ruler opened the letter, signed it and declared, "I hereby fulfill the king's promise to grant the aforementioned loyal servant of the crown, Jacques Leponte, his request by fully acquitting this woman from her accused crime. In this, I return to her full citizenship and any rights she has been denied." He signed the letter and handed it to the man and his wife before him for safe keeping.

Taking a fresh parchment, the acquitter jotted something down, rolled it and also handed it to the son of the legend. Still holding Jacqueline, d'Artagnan looked up at his king in question of what this gesture possibly meant. Louis spoke to him quietly, "You will make sure this is properly delivered." He shared one last long look with his loyal soldier, glanced at the battled, but noble woman beside him and stepped back to address the room.

Mazarin opened his mouth to say something, but no one heard what it was because Louis declared, "Dismissed!" And with a stern, unmoving determination on his face, he briefly looked around the murmuring room, turned and walked down the hall.

Duval watched him as he strode off. He observed that the newly crowned king looked somehow taller and walked a little surer than just a day before. The captain was convinced had his father been there that day, he would have been proud to see his son. He was young, but he had begun his official reign on sure footing.

King Louis glanced back over his shoulder for one last look, as he strode down the hallway. Martin Duval could read the cares of France in the young king's face. The king's Musketeer captain bowed to acknowledge his loyal support in the days and years to come. He could see the budding ruler nod ever so slightly in receipt of his gesture, and then look once again toward the younger d'Artagnan and Jacqueline. The seasoned soldier watched him swallow hard at their sight before turning his back and disappearing in the distance. That look, the older man could not interpret. He suspected the secret lie in the words Louis had placed in his favored soldier's hands. Whatever the king had penned, he could only guess, for its contents were quietly ushered away. Duval wondered.

Then his thoughts wandered to the unhappy man in red giving the room a final look before exiting quietly through a side door. Captain Duval had not won the entire battle over Cardinal Mazarin, but Jacqueline had won her freedom. And that was something…a huge something. Duval took in a deep breath and sighed at the victory. His Eminence had given King Louis XIV divine authority at his coronation, and Louis had begun his reign with clear intent of his positioning with his subordinate. It was he, not Mazarin who was in charge.

It all made Duval's head swim. He did not envy the job King Louis XIV had before him, but remembering his conversation with the king earlier that morning gave him hope. He was young, but he had gotten off to a good start. Captain Duval recalled something he had recently heard Ramon say. It seemed to fit.

Rest well my soul,

Knowing the sun will indeed rise again

On your beloved Musketeers!

**So the adventures of the Musketeers continue…**

Read the sequel to this story,

As Jacqueline wrestles with her identity

And the meaning behind

The _Sign of the Cross_!

http://ybbeyond. a Blessed Christmas, 2006!


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